Panned
by uchiha.s
Summary: AU. Famed critic Voldemort pans Hermione's play, humiliating her in front of the world. As she vows to prove she can write a perfect play, being around Voldemort makes her reconsider the vows to her boyfriend Viktor she is planning on making.
1. Lesson One: Concrit

**Panned**

Notes: Just a little bit of writing to get things moving. Probably crap.

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Lesson One: Concrit<strong>

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><p><strong>"Normally I think it rather unfair to critique a play's actors. Often a poorly written script will mask the skills of even the most talented actors. But not only was 'S.P.E.W' horrendously written, it was also atrociously cast. Did you recognize its star, 'Harry Potter'? Neither did I."<strong>

Seething, Hermione Granger crumpled up the _Hogsmeade Times _before pitching it into the fire. She was usually strictly against wasting paper — after all, newspaper had more uses than even duct tape — but she would never be capable of bringing herself to reuse any piece of paper that contained words written by _him.  
><em>  
>The flames curled around the black-and-white photograph attached to the article, framing the angelic face of the infamous critic Voldemort. In the photograph, one eyebrow was quirked in amusement, and his pale lips were pressed together as though stifling a derisive snigger. His dark hair was just long enough to fall tantalizingly across his forehead in dark waves. He was wearing a simple black sweater, probably of the finest cashmere.<p>

She had never met Voldemort, but she had known of him long enough. He had gained fame as a scathing journalist and blogger, going by the name Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr., and Hermione was ashamed and disgusted to admit that she had once avidly followed his work. Back when she and Ron had been a thing, their routine had been to sit in bed at night with their laptops, poring over the latest entries on his blog together or chuckling at his comments on other blogs. She had even, humiliatingly, followed his twitter account.

Then, apparently bored with the world of reporting, Tom Riddle Jr. had turned his attentions to the art world. Admittedly, Hermione had never thought she'd venture into the art world either, but lo and behold somewhere on the way to law school she had realized that championing the rights of oppressed people was more important than making money as a top-barrister, which she had been intended to do practically since birth. It was these unexpected forays into the world of art for both Hermione and this critic that were causing all the trouble.

She was known for her lack of creativity (her friend Harry never ceased to be amused by her attempts at drawing) so when she had unveiled her very first script, everyone around her had been nonplussed, to say the least. She was also confused. It had just sort of happened, though — one night after The Breakup with Ron, she had been lonely, and she may or may not have even taken a hit at the otherwise untouched bottle of vodka that Ginny had left in her flat. Hermione Granger, once perfectly and totally in control, had apparently had a Meltdown.

So she'd woken up the next morning on her carpet, her laptop digging into her cheek and her cat, Crookshanks, perched atop her head. One hand had been clutching a nearly empty vodka bottle, the other cramped and in extreme pain from being slept on. And in a state of utter and total confusion, she had looked at her screen to find one hundred pages of a script written.

Naturally the script was focused on the unfair treatment of illegal immigrants. At first, Hermione had deemed the script a fluke, and had forgotten about it. It wasn't until Harry was snooping on her computer one day (something about proving that she watched porn; she hadn't really asked _why_) and found the script that it was revisited.

Fast-forward to one year later, and while she was no richer, thinner, or less single, she was technically a playwright. Her play was mostly a cast of her friends (and okay, so maybe she had threatened a few of them — notably Harry — into playing various parts), and had been put on at the small Hog's Head theater for free admission (donations accepted, of course going to the cause of illegal immigrants). While her parents and friends had all told her it was a 'moving' and 'important' piece, the play's embarrassing lack of success had spoken for itself.

And now, this critic was adding insult to injury. The pain was so much worse considering she had been Tom Riddle Jr.'s fan. She had looked up to him, had laughed to herself on the metro when reading his scathing articles, and even had fantasized about one day meeting him and impressing him with her sparkling wit — never mind the fact that she usually completely clammed up around handsome men. Mysteriously, in these daydreams she also tended to look much more like one of the hottest fashion models — for example, Ron's sister Ginny — and less like...herself.

Her mobile ringing distracted her from her dark musings, and Hermione opened her archaic flip phone.

"Hermy, I vill be there in ten minute," grunted Viktor before hanging up abruptly. Viktor was a world-renowned footballer whose personality did not line up with his status at all. Viktor preferred peace and quiet and really kept to himself. Hermione had met him at Hogwarts during undergraduate, as he had been drafted for the football team, which her best friend Harry had been on. They had dated for a few years but things had never really worked out. Nowadays, they frequently met up whenever he was in Hogsmeade.

They were still good friends and she enjoyed spending time with him. And at the end of the night, they could have a good shag and then they wouldn't have to call each other for six months. No hard feelings. Really. It was easy, if a bit boring, and it was safe, if a bit unfulfilling. It wasn't a relationship, but it was all she had currently going for her.

She knew she didn't need to impress him, so she didn't even bother getting dolled up. Remarkably punctual, Viktor was knocking on her door exactly ten minutes later, carrying a bouquet of red roses and wearing his usual scowl.

"The traffic in this city is the vorst," he complained as Hermione hastily set the roses in her coffee maker (she owned no vases) before locking the door. Crookshanks' reproachful stare was the last thing she saw before locking up. Viktor's car was an impressive, gleaming dark red Firebolt and was waiting, badly parked, outside of Hermione's building. If Viktor ever thought their disparity in wealth was strange, he never commented on it (thankfully).

"It is, I suppose. I never notice because I always take the metro," she replied vaguely. They reached Viktor's chosen restaurant. He had learned years ago not to choose expensive places because Hermione insisted on paying her share but could not afford entrees that cost more than a month of rent. So when they pulled up to the fancy Three Broomsticks, Hermione rounded on Viktor. "Viktor, I _told _you—"

He held up his hand.

"I haff something I vant to discuss vith you, Hermy," he said firmly. Her stomach did a little flip-flop as he parked and they went inside the warm restaurant. White twinkle lights covered every possible surface, giving the place a warm, rosy glow. Hushed whispers assaulted them due to Viktor's fame as they were led to one of the coziest tables in the place and Hermione began to fear that Viktor was going to do something rash.

The bile was rising in her throat and she couldn't take it any more. As Viktor was perusing the menu, Hermione yanked it from his grasp. "Ve need to choose the wine!"

"No, we need to have you tell me what the _hell_is going on," Hermione hissed, glowering at him. "Why the roses, and the fancy candlelit dinner?"

Viktor was looking uncomfortable.

"Vell, I vanted to—" he began, but something caught Hermione's attention.

"Is that Tom Marvolo Riddle?" someone cried out in a greeting.

As though in slow motion, Hermione's head turned as she took in her arch nemesis entering the restaurant. As usual, he was wearing his plain but stylish clothing with great insouciance; he nonchalantly raked a pale, angular hand through his hair as some society person or other accosted him.

"Hermy, I am trying to—"

"Hold that thought, Viktor," she said darkly, not taking her eyes off of the newest patron of the Three Broomsticks. She rose from her seat, stalking towards the man who had humiliated her in front of the entire city of Hogsmeade.

"Actually, I go by Voldemort now," jested Riddle with a sensuous, baritone laugh. He was shaking the hand of a blonde man with a pointed face—Hermione recognized him as a socialite named Lucius Malfoy. She had gone to school with his son, Draco, and considering the many times that she had bee bullied by Draco, she would have thought Lucius would know her immediately. _Of course. Leave it to that snob to forcibly forget who I am._ Hermione reached the two men, fiercely ignoring the sense of how piteous she looked compared to them, in her scuffed trainers and threadbare denims.

"Hello, Voldemort," she began politely, pasting on a tight smile. The two men glanced between each other.

"You know...this..._person_, Riddle?" Lucius asked, looking down at Hermione with disdain.

"He knows me well, considering he ripped my play to shreds," she said lightly, trying to keep the notes of rising hysteria out of her voice. It would not do to lose her cool in front of him. She had expected he might laugh her off or offer some disparaging remark about her play, but all she got was a blank look.

"You wrote a play? You hardly look like you can read," he said innocently, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. Hermione's eye twitched as she stared up at him, totally unprepared for this sort of comment. No one had _ever_ dared to question the intelligence of Hermione Granger. Perhaps she was not gainfully employed at the moment, but that was mostly due to her refusal to apply anywhere less than top-notch. She had been first in her class _everywhere_, and she was not going to have this — this — _jerk _insult her like this.

"My play was an important and moving piece about the treatment of illegal immi—"

"Blah, blah, _blah_," interrupted Riddle boredly, making a talking gesture with his hand and rolling his eyes. "Did your mummy tell you that?"

Hermione pressed her lips together, happily imagining tying this man to the train tracks and letting the metro run back and forth over his body all day.

"Er, excuse me, Mister Riddle—did you want to take your seat now?" The maitre'd had tactfully interrupted them, and was escorting Riddle away to a private dining room along with Malfoy, leaving Hermione to stew where she stood. Belatedly, she realized everyone was staring at her and Viktor was looking more than humiliated. With a sigh, Hermione returned to their table.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "He insulted my play, and, well..." she exhaled hotly before looking up. "What were you saying before?"

Viktor's dark eyes cast about the room, and Hermione frowned. "Well?" she prompted uneasily. Viktor was shifting in his seat for a long moment; she could see he had prepared a speech.

"I am tventy-eight, Hermy," he began uncomfortably.

"...And?" She shot him an I-can-count-you-know sort of look.

"And I vant to marry soon."

The bile that had been on the rise on the way into the restaurant was pooling in her mouth, and Hermione clapped her hand over her lips. Viktor seemed oblivious to her distress; at the moment he seemed thoroughly focused on picking a stain out of the white linen tablecloth as he continued. "You are so smart, Hermione. I never told you, but I vas alvays thinking of you, even after ve broke up."

There was a rare, shy sort of smile forming on his lips as he spoke that was helpful in pushing the bile back down. "I like that you are not like all of the other girls. I like how...how do you say? ..._Spirited_ you are." He finally looked up and his smile broadened. "I do not vant for a trophy vife — I vant for _you_. Vat do you think, Hermy?"

"I-I think I have to go to the loo," she replied feebly, and rose, trying very hard to block out the way Viktor's face fell. He looked _crushed_. Hermione sprinted across the restaurant, not even stopping when she knocked over a chair, inciting the anger of several impeccably dressed socialites.

The bathroom was fancy, with golden embossed wallpaper and stalls that were actual rooms with real doors. Hermione stumbled into one of the rooms and crouched over the toilet, dry heaving until she had emptied her stomach with horrible retching noises. Finally, she sat back against the wall, covered in a sheen of cold sweat, trembling slightly.

At first blush, this seemed entirely unexpected, until Hermione took the chance to reflect on the past year. How many times had Viktor invited her on an all-expenses-paid trip to visit his family in Bulgaria? At the time, Hermione had always brushed it off as Viktor feeling sorry for her. He was always trying to give her money — she'd caught him trying to pay her electric bill on several occasions, and every time Hermione had ever innocently remarked on wanting something, she usually would receive it the next day from Viktor. This was the only reason she owned a M. Malkin handbag, and naturally she had quickly learned to never make any comments on wanting anything. So whenever he invited her anywhere, she assumed it was due to him feeling bad that she never went on vacations anywhere.

And hadn't they mysteriously stopped being friends when she had entered an official relationship with Ron? And then 'randomly' Viktor had contacted her again after her breakup with Ron... He had also always gotten unreasonably upset whenever Hermione had reported hanging out solely with Harry. Why hadn't she seen it before? All this time, she had thought she and Viktor had simply been using each other, but now she knew he had seen their time together far differently.

"I am an idiot," she said aloud, banging her head against the wall behind her just as she heard the bathroom door swinging shut.

"Yes, considering you're in the men's room, whoever you are," agreed a smooth, cultured voice coming from outside the stall. Hermione paled. She sprang to her feet, flushed the toilet, and threw open the door to find Voldemort looking amused and a little disgusted. A rush of a delicious combination of cologne, peppermint, and soap greeted her nose — far preferable to the unfortunate funk of bile that she had left in her wake.

"You're in the ladies' room, actually," she said coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. Wordlessly, Voldemort opened the door to the bathroom and pointed silently to the very prominent gilded _Gentlemen_ sign on the door. Hermione swayed a bit on her feet in shock as Voldemort released the doorknob, letting the door swing shut and smirking broadly at her. The way his lovely lips curved and the way his elegant brows arched momentarily distracted her. He was literally a perfect specimen — photographs hadn't done him justice.

"This is embarrassing for you," he remarked lightly, apparently pretending to stifle his smirk. "I promise to pretend it never happened, for your sake." His words destroyed her lust and she was filled with rage — rage at herself for her own idiocy, both at the moment as well as at her situation with Viktor, and rage at Voldemort and all of the myriad ways he had humiliated her.

"You're too kind," she spat. Voldemort sniggered at her vitriol, and that was apparently Hermione's last straw. As she was leaving, she swung the door open with such gusto that it smacked into Voldemort. She left the men's room, smirking to herself at his cry of pain.

Unfortunately, now she had to confront Viktor. He was waiting at their table, outwardly looking no different from usual. He had apparently chosen the wine, and had poured a glass for her. Guilt surged through Hermione as she realized she was truly behaving abhorrently. Here Viktor had gone to all this trouble for her, and she was busy vomiting and getting into arguments with certain jerks.

"Are you feeling vell, Hermione?" Viktor asked, rising from his chair as she approached. Hermione gave him a sheepish grin.

"Sorry. Must be coming down with something," she explained. Her face flushed as Viktor pulled out her chair for her. "You really don't have to do that, Viktor," she said earnestly. Viktor ignored her.

"Are you still vanting the vine?"

"Yes, of course," she said, and gripped her own glass. "Look, I just need some time to think about...what you were saying."

Viktor was looking at the tablecloth again. He cleared his throat.

"I understand," he said cautiously, "so ven I return from training next month, ve vill talk about this again then."

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><p>The dinner was awkward after that. The unanswered question hung in the air between them and even though they had agreed to not discuss it for the rest of the evening, Hermione still felt like she was tiptoeing around the most volatile and finicky mine in the history of weaponry — why did <em>everything<em> suddenly seem to be related to marriage? By the time they were finished, Hermione was positive that they were equally exhausted. Instead of their usual post-dinner shag, Viktor had simply dropped her off. She had thanked him awkwardly for the dinner and the flowers and he'd driven off into the wet night.

Crookshanks hardly looked remotely sympathetic to her inner turmoil, but apparently was mollified when presented with extra dinner. Hermione sat on her threadbare couch with her ancient laptop and a mug of tea as Crookshanks perched on the couch next to her, purring loudly every time she scratched him behind his ears.

She wanted someone to talk to about this, but she was at a loss. Things had never quite normalized between her and Ron, and so understandably every time either of them mentioned a date or prospective relationship, the other became irrationally upset. Harry was as useful for relationship advice as a potato, and said about as much when asked about anything of a remotely personal nature. Ginny had the most extreme reaction possible for any given situation and tended to tell everyone within earshot (which was quite a lot given the potential volume the Weasley girl could reach) any time Hermione had anything interesting happen to her (luckily this was a rare occurrence).

Desperate to avoid any sort of decisionmaking on her relationship with Viktor, Hermione found herself wandering to Voldemort's twitter.

_**Voldemort 10m  
>Writer of SPEW actually drowned mountain troll? It all makes sense!<strong>_

Furious, ashamed, and humiliated, Hermione immediately went to his blog, where the results were no better.  
><strong><em><br>On January 13th, 2011, Voldemort wrote:  
><em>**_  
>Tonight at The Three Broomsticks*** I ran into the writer of "S.P.E.W." and found myself utterly moved. <em>

_I can safely say that now I find "S.P.E.W" to be an inspirational piece. The writer appears to be of the Troll species, which demonstrates the autobiographical nature of the story of illegal immigration told in S.P.E.W. Truly, it is inspiring that this young female (?) Troll had the courage to flee Middle Earth and come to our humble little city of Hogsmeade illegally. I rescind my review; even as I write this my eyes are glistening with tears yet unshed for her (?) bravery. Not only is she an illegal immigrant, but thanks to an insider report recently obtained, she is also mentally retarded. The trials this young Troll has faced make her (?) an inspiration to us all.  
><em>**  
><strong>_***Oh, and on a less amusing note: the tripe at Three Broomsticks is abhorrent, as is the caviar._

_xoxox Voldemort_**_  
><em>**  
>"Oh, no he did <em>not<em>," said Hermione darkly, glowering down at her screen even as tears of embarrassment pricked her vision. Her intelligence was all she had left, and he had insulted even that. Was _nothing_ sacred?

Crookshanks' tail swished as his large, yellow eyes followed her actions. It took a few minutes of quality time with the search engine, Accio, but soon Hermione had located Voldemort's address. After that all she needed was a box of sugar from her cabinet and she was marching down the road to Voldemort's posh flat. She had contemplated introducing Ron's baseball bat to Voldemort's car, but deemed it too obvious. No, sugar in the gas tank was _far _better...

Hermione was filled with a cold, cruel sense of purpose as she reached the row of heartbreakingly expensive townhouses where Voldemort lived. All exquisitely upkept, with naturally the highest real estate value in all of Hogsmeade. The price was so high that it was, in Hermione's opinion, akin to selling one's soul.

"Number Seven, Horcrux Drive..." she muttered to herself, scanning the mailboxes for the proper address. The light was on at number seven, signifying Voldemort was indeed at home. Hermione was still so enraged and embarrassed that she marched right up to the front door and began tapping the doorbell in quick, short intervals for maximum irritation. She was grinning with catlike satisfaction when she heard swearing and footsteps on the other side of the door, and immediately she bolted to the sidewalk, where his black Avada Kedavra was parked. She pried open the gas flap unceremoniously and waited for the door to open.

Voldemort's tall, lean frame was silhouetted by the warm golden light coming from inside. He had clearly been in the middle of relaxing, for he wasn't wearing shoes and his dark waves were looking a bit rumpled. He was even wearing glasses.

"Whoever had the gall to ring my doorbell so obnoxiously—" he began loudly, leaning casually on the doorframe, when he spotted Hermione standing on the street and his expression brightened. "Oh, the drowned mountain Troll. How's Middle Earth?" he asked pleasantly.

"Fantastic. We have sugar," said Hermione with a sweet smile, holding up the box. A flash of confusion crossed Voldemort's face before he paled significantly, his eyes going wide and his jaw hanging slack for a moment. He recovered quickly, and simply smirked at her.

"Go ahead — do it,_" _he goaded softly, so that she could barely hear him. Hermione bristled indignantly.

"What? I heard you're obsessed with your car. Why are you _encouraging_ me to destroy it?" she demanded, waving the box as she spoke so that a spray of sugar flew from the box. Voldemort shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded her with pure amusement.

"I can always purchase a new one, you know. You, however, cannot simply purchase new morals. Your precious illegal immigrants put together that exquisite engine that you are so keen on ruining. How does that make you feel, Miss Troll?"

Hermione promptly dropped the box in self-disgust. _Didn't think of that._ _Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

"Look," she began desperately, "what do I have to do to get you to stop humiliating me through every existing portal? I'm the laughing stock of Hogsmeade now, thanks to you."

Voldemort looked thoughtful for a moment. The way his gaze roved so thoroughly over her form made her skin prickle with warmth.

"I would have thought that simply walking around looking like _that_ would have been damaging enough, but I suppose you're correct. Everyone in this city agrees with my opinions."

"Except for me," Hermione said heatedly. Voldemort smirked at her.

"Yes, true," he agreed before heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Did it ever occur to you that the sort of people who go to see plays in Hogsmeade are not the sort of people who give two shits about illegal immigration? You're preaching to a deaf congregation."

"That is _exactly _why it is so important—" she stopped when Voldemort held up a pale, angular hand.

"No, that is _exactly_ why it cannot succeed. Hogsmeade is a city full of wealthy citizens who have moved away from London because they value the idyllic nature of Hogsmeade. This city is clean, prosperous, and peaceful. The crime rate is astonishingly low while the standard of living is astonishingly high. No one who lives here is interested in sitting through two hours of interpretive dance on the problems of people continents away...especially as the citizens of Hogsmeade happen to benefit from said people's problems."

His words hit home, and Hermione's cheeks burned in embarrassment.

"I have to get my message out somehow," she sputtered.

"No, you just want a bit of success so you can pat yourself on the back that you've done something 'good' so that when you do finally use your impressive degree to get a real job, you can wash away the guilt by remembering your 'moral' and 'positive' contribution to supposedly important issues."

Voldemort paused, letting his words sink in. "Before you ask, let me point out that this paradigm is as old as the political science degree. Recent graduates have a short interim between their expensive education — paid for by their parents, of course — and their fancy business or law job — usually acquired through family connections — which is often spent doing unpaid service in another country, or something similar. These kids work in third-world countries for a year or two, post pictures of themselves posing with underprivileged children, and then they can go home and pluck up their corner office with no guilt."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but no sound would come out. Because Voldemort was _right._ Wasn't it true that just last month, her uncle had offered her an impressive job at his accounting company? Didn't she have a million offers waiting like that from various people, any of which she could take the moment she decided she had tired of being poor and 'creative'? Weren't her parents just begging her to go to law school, just begging her to let them pay for the whole thing?

"I will not use my connections or something like that. I want to make a difference — and I'm going to do it. Some way, or somehow," she vowed, more to herself than Voldemort.

"Sure you are," he replied vaguely in a placating and condescending tone. He pushed away from leaning against the doorframe. "Now, are you done threatening my engine? Because I rather like that car."

Hermione's embarrassment at her actions came in a surge.

"I...was never actually going to do it," she said rather lamely. Voldemort's smirk was very knowing.

"I know you weren't," he simply said before grasping his doorknob. "Good evening, Miss Troll."

He shut the door.

Hermione stared after the closed door in thought before sprinting up to it and knocking for the second time that evening. Voldemort threw the door open, looking rather cross this time. She was hit with a burst of his scent and was momentarily paralyzed, yet again, by his lovely eyes.

"Yes?" he asked in a clipped, terse tone.

"I was never actually going to pour sugar in your gas tank," she began carefully, "but I _will_ write a play that you cannot possibly pan. And it will be about illegal immigration. And everyone..." she paused for dramatic effect, her eyes glittering, "...will see it."

A smirk was slowly forming on his lips.

"I look forward to it," he replied simply. Hermione gripped the door so that he could not shut it before she was finished speaking.

"And my name is Hermione Granger," she added. Voldemort was laughing now.

"You'll always be Miss Troll to me. By the way...next time your famous footballer boyfriend asks you to marry him, try vomiting in the ladies' room instead. I hear they're designed with bulimic socialites in mind, so they're better equipped for vomiting purposes." Hermione's jaw went slack and she released her hold on the door.

"H-how did you..."

Wordlessly he held up his fancy FlooPhone; the web browser was open to The Daily Prophet. There was a squashed, blurry photo of her running away from the table at the Three Broomsticks, leaving a verifiably heartbroken Viktor in her wake.

"Your engagement's made the front page," he said innocently. "Now, for the last time — good night." Just as he grasped the doorknob, she heard a camera flash going off behind her, and Voldemort shot her a grin. "Welcome to the world of fame, Miss Troll," he added ominously before the door clicked shut.


	2. Lesson Two: Damning with Faint Praise

**Panned**

Notes: You guys rock! Thanks to the following for reviewing: **SamarKanda, ****DArk 16EtErnIty z8, ****Annevader, ****smos, ****Lady Riddle-Black, ****Shan84, ****HMK, A. Deca,** **wingedmercury, moor, cocoartist, MeriLynelle, ****Kissable-Luxury, unknownkyitty, le-femme-cavalier, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, BananaDrama, Cellar, BeNeRe, Kissing Dementors, Anon, Irony, Mimo-Sene, BookishBrains, LittleHellCat, FiOnAFiO, and SAVAGEGRACEx.**

Responses to unsigned reviews:

LittleHellCat: thanks!

Irony: thanks! Yes, Bad Romance will be updated soon. I had a burst of inspiration tonight and have made quite a bit of progress on it.

Anon: the final chapter of Lacrimosa is in the works, and it should be updated soon. Also, yes — I went to high school with a _lot_ of those types, haha. Realizing that for herself will be a key point to Hermione's development, for sure — like you said, she doesn't realize it at the moment.

BananaDrama: thanks!

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Lesson Two: Damning with Faint Praise<strong>

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><p>Exhausted by her own overpowering humiliation, Hermione had stumbled into her bed, ready and willing for the sweet oblivion of sleep to claim her. But alas she tossed and turned all night. She woke up repeatedly from jumbled nightmares involving trolls drowning in boxes of sugar; Voldemort's sensuous laughter echoing from all points surrounding her; and Viktor proposing — only, his head had been replaced by a toilet.<p>

By the next morning, she was even more tired than she might have been had she never gone to bed at all. She was also admittedly a little bit afraid of her toilet. Hermione woke to Crookshanks pouncing on her loudly buzzing phone.

"Crookshanks, no," she groaned absently, and tumbled out of bed to rescue her phone. Crookshanks gave a disgusted hiss and sashayed off to terrorize her favorite shoes. Rubbing at her eyes blearily, Hermione grasped her phone and made her way to the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of making coffee without paying attention as she flipped open her phone.

**_You have:_**

**_39 Missed Call(s)_**

**_92 Unread Msg(s)_**

_"_What the— oh, _shit!_" The coffeemaker began to hiss and spew its disapproval as Hermione belatedly realized the coffeepot was still in her sink, bearing a dozen rather wilted-looking red roses.

Viktor's proposal and the evidence of her own ignorance stared her in the face in shades of lurid, unnatural red with baby's breath mixed at appropriately artistic intervals. The feeling was like missing a step on your way up the stairs — again she desperately wondered how she could have possibly been blindsided by something that now seemed glaringly obvious. She had never been particularly skilled with human interaction — especially when it came to men — but this was just _sad_.

After she had stuck the roses in a large glass and the coffee was on its way to being made properly, Hermione confronted her phone with a sense of dread. Normally, her phone was likely to go days without so much as a single text message, unless Ginny was feeling particularly chatty. Ron was also a frequent culprit of derriere-dialing. To go from nothing to so many messages was a little bit intimidating.

Half of the missed calls were from Ginny, and at least two-thirds of the text messages were from her as well. The rest were a mixture of her parents, Harry, and a few of her other friends...notably, none of them were from Ron.

**Have u seen the prophet? :O **This was from Neville.

**HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GET MARRIED! luv u sweetie! Make sure you floss twice a day! **This, of course, was from her parents.

**HERM! WTF IS GOING ON! **This was a variant of Ginny's messages.

**...Hermione, please return Ginny's calls, because she is getting on my nerves.**

_Poor Harry_, Hermione thought with a snigger at that last text message. She supposed that they had seen the article that Voldemort had shown her before he had shut the door in her face. She came to the end of the texts; there was a single text from Viktor.

**Do not read the prophet.** was all it said.

* * *

><p>"Handsome football superstar Viktor Krum's surprising fiancee," Ginny read aloud while stifling a smirk before a very sour Hermione clawed at the newspaper, ripping it in half in the process. "Hey, I was reading that!" Ginny whined. Hermione glowered at her.<p>

"Glad you find this entertaining," she said acidly. Ginny's mouth twisted into a wry grin before she patted Hermione's hand condescendingly.

"Oh, come on Hermione. It's funny. Besides, I think in real life you're actually better-looking than Viktor anyway."

The two halves of the Daily Prophet fell to the surface of the table, split down the middle of a blown-up image of Hermione. It was a photograph that Hermione had had no idea had been taken; it was from the night before. In the photograph, she was clutching the box of sugar, eyes wide, hair wild, expression manic. The lighting was atrocious; it looked like she had a triple chin due to the way her hair was falling round her face, and her thighs looked nebulous.

Directly next to that picture was probably the best photograph of Viktor that Hermione had ever seen. It was one of him on the football field, mid-kick. Viktor had grown into his strong features and so he was certainly much handsomer than he had been when she had first met him, but he was still no Gilderoy Lockhart.

But on the field, everything changed. His wiry, vaguely duck-footed stature suddenly became elegant, athletic, and sleek, like a jaguar waiting to pounce. His sinewed muscles were pulling against his jersey and sweat was flicking off his face and catching the sunlight.

Hermione let out a loud groan and let her head fall onto the little table as she listened to Ginny point out all of the many ways in which the picture of her was horrible.

"Y-you're not actually marrying him, though, right?"

Hermione looked up; it was the first time Ron had spoken all afternoon. Harry and Ginny exchanged worried glances as Hermione felt her stomach dropping out at the look on Ron's face.

"Well..." she began slowly, "I'm...really not sure. I told him I'd think about it."

Ron turned puce.

"Right," he said immediately before clearing his throat. "Reasonable of you. No need to rush into things."

Part of her was surprised at how maturely Ron was handling this, and the other part felt a strange, weighty combination of pity and regret. That last bit was especially stupid — she and Ron had given it a fair chance; they were utterly _wrong_ for each other — but all the same, sometimes she felt sort of like she had ruined something that might've been wonderful. That feeling was especially powerful now as Ron looked away, his blue eyes cast down to the floor of the coffee shop, his red hair falling over his forehead. Her heart had never really stopped tightening at the sight of him and, as they had been friends for so very long, she shared a connection with him that told her he was suffering in just the same way.

But if they couldn't be together, and they couldn't be apart, then what _could_ they be?

"Also, just out of curiosity...where exactly was this taken, Hermione? That's a black Avada Kedavra seven point oh..." Harry was practically salivating at the background of her unfortunate photograph, and at the mention of the fine car, Ron abruptly forgot his melancholy and choked on his spit in shock.

"Avada Kedavra?" he sputtered, snatching it from Harry's grasp. Ginny rolled her eyes broadly, mouthing '**boys'** to Hermione with a knowing nod. The lovely redhead's eyes narrowed shrewdly suddenly.

"And why do you look like you're screaming?" she asked, studying the photograph. "And what is that box of sugar?"

Hermione snorted.

"You've been dissecting the multitude of ways in which that is the worst picture of me for the last hour and those are the _last_ things you notice?"

Ginny shrugged.

"There are so many bad pictures of you looking psychotic that I've learned to stop questioning," she said simply.

"Yeah, you never look normal in pictures," Harry agreed vaguely. "But why the Avada Kedavra?" He looked up to Hermione with eyes shining with envy and admiration, which was nothing compared to the look on Ron's face which was not wholly interpretable. She had never seen that sort of expression before — oh, wait, _she had_. And it was usually preceded by a grunt and found in bed. Hermione looked away abruptly. Only Ron could look _orgasmic_ over the mention of a stupid car.

"Well," she began, unsure of whether to divulge, "Last night, when Viktor took me to the Three Broomsticks, I sort of lost my temper..."

"Uh oh," said Ron and Harry together emphatically.

"Uh oh is right," Hermione said with a grimace. She recounted the story for the trio of friends (and was a bit annoyed to see all three of them stifle sniggers when she told them about Voldemort's tweet regarding S.P.E.W., but decided to let it slide). When it was over, Ginny was the first to recover.

"So let me get this straight. You're telling me that you — Hermione Granger, the most annoyingly law-abiding person the world besides Percy — threatened to dump sugar in this man's gas tank?"

Ginny thrashed through the Prophet until she had found Voldemort's usual column, with yet another devastatingly sexy photograph similar to the one he had in the _Hogsmeade Times_. She jabbed a manicured finger at it, her mouth hanging open in pure shock. "This man? One of the sexiest but douchiest men in Hogsmeade?"

"He humiliated me in front of the entire world. What was I supposed to do?" Hermione sputtered, becoming embarrassed. "Look, I've suffered enough, and I've finished talking about this."

"Well, you still have to decide what you're doing about Viktor," said Ginny matter-of-factly. Hermione glowered at her.

"Which I will do, on my own time," she replied testily. Ginny snorted and gave a blase wave of her hand.

"I'm not talking about the proposal. None of my business —"

"Rightly so—"

"_However_," Ginny continued loudly, pretending Hermione hadn't interrupted her, "You're something of a celebrity now, aren't you?" An odd gleam was forming in Ginny's eye which Hermione was, admittedly, a bit intimidated by. In spite of propbably weighing less than Hermione had in third grade, Ginny could be quite the force to be reckoned with when she felt like it, which turned out to be quite often.

Ginny's intent registered in Hermione's sharp mind far sooner than it would have for anyone else, and Hermione immediately shot to her feet and backed away from Ginny.

"No. I won't. It's a waste of money — money that I really don't have, mind you — and it's just not who I _am._ We've been over this," she said firmly. Ginny was giving her puppy eyes, which was rather effective given how large, innocent, and sparkly her brown eyes were.

"But Hermione, remember how pleased you were at the Yule Ball after my work?" Ginny cajoled her. "Actually, you sort of have me to thank for Viktor's proposal. I don't think anyone knew what you were hiding under those baggy eco-friendly sweatshirts before that night," she added thoughtfully before letting out a squeal of pain. The warning look from Harry told Hermione that he must have just trod on Ginny's foot.

Mentioning the Yule Ball — a rather archaic tradition of her undergrad, Hogwarts — meant treading on thin ice...or, more accurately, treading on thin ice laced with explosives while wearing snowshoes and carrying a squalling elephant.

In short, it was dangerous — for reasons that Hermione preferred to not revisit, actually, especially not with Ron in the vicinity. Those were some awkward memories.

"I'm still not understanding," admitted Ron, who was apparently working very hard to hide his own discomfort at this whole situation. Ginny sighed in exasperation.

"We're going shopping so that Hermione doesn't look like an electrocuted molerat," she said impatiently. "She's a celebrity now and there will be all kinds of photographs of her in the tabloids. And as her best friend, I refuse to allow her to be subjected to the cruel public," she continued valiantly.

With the bemused boys and an extremely unhappy Hermione in tow, Ginny set sail for Gladrags, a department store with all of the most hifalutin clothing that money could possibly buy. The idea of spending any money at all was laughable for Hermione, and it was this thought that acted as a candle, a rare beacon of hope in such times of darkness. Even if Ginny literally stole her bankcard and forced it to be swiped, it would be declined, because Hermione remembered the last statement she'd received, and she was positive that it wouldn't be enough to buy a damn sock in this store.

They entered Gladrag's gleaming front. Its store windows were crowded with avant garde mannequins wearing scraps of cloth that made absolutely no sense to Hermione. Before she had grown accustomed to this strange thing called 'fashion' she had often studied the mannequins carefully, in search of some clue as to why people were willing to throw their money away for these absurd garments.

Being friends with Ginny, whose career revolved around these things, had forced Hermione to learn to take it in stride. Now she followed Ginny through the store, no longer remotely cowed by the stares of the snooty salespeople. The third floor was reserved exclusively for only the most hoity-toity designers, and in resignation, Hermione followed Ginny to the escalator. They'd lost the boys somewhere in the makeup section, and from their elevated position, Hermione and Ginny observed in amusement as a very flamboyant young man cornered Harry, rather irresponsibly wielding an artist's palette of eyeshadows.

"He's so cute and innocent sometimes," Ginny sighed as she gazed down at her boyfriend. "Well, anyway — let's get you looking fabulous!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and followed Ginny around the third floor, conceding to have Ginny hold up one ridiculous item after another, shrieking proclamations of how 'perfect' it would be. Luckily, Ginny had a rather sharp sense of humor that made the whole experience bearable, and soon she was beginning to actually have some fun.

Then, something strange occurred.

One of the salespeople had realized that Ginny had been in one of the glossy ads for M. Malkin dresses, and now Ginny was wrapped up in being admired by everyone in the vicinity. Awkward and bored, Hermione slipped away and began wandering about the store. This was going to take a while — Ginny had many fans, being one of the few fashion models who was naturally redheaded.

The men's section was on the other side of the third floor, and Hermione was attracted by an entire wall of colorful pure silk ties. In vague interest, she began examining them, until a familiar voice caught her attention and she froze.

"...funny how Granger of all people is marrying Krum, don't you think, father?"

Her blood boiled at the slow drawl of Draco's voice, and she gripped a pink paisley tie in rage, seething silently.

"You should have seen her last evening, Draco. She made an absolute fool of herself when she attacked Tom Riddle, insisting that he'd ruined her life." Lucius' voice was a slightly deeper version of Draco's and did nothing to calm Hermione down. _All those times Draco bullied me and he did **nothing**_. Sometimes, looking back, Hermione was amazed that she had survived high school, as it seemed Draco had done everything in his power to make her life a living hell. She was nearly twenty-six now and really ought to have put the past away, and for the most part, she had. But some wounds never completely healed, and so she would never completely forgive Draco.

Draco was laughing as his father continued. "But, interestingly enough, I was talking to Riddle today and he said he admires the girl, so maybe there's more to her than we're seeing."

Hermione dropped the paisley tie in shock. It was wrinkled now due to being gripped by her hands, which were sweaty from her rage.

"Riddle?" Draco sounded thoughtful. "That's odd. He doesn't admire anyone."

"I know. But he said he found her an intriguing young woman and could understand why Krum might prefer her to his other suitors."

"Well, one does have to wonder how she got her hair like that. _That_ is certainly intriguing. Do you think she electrocutes herself every morning?"

Out of curiosity, Hermione poked her head round a display of belts, the heavy scent of leather filling her nose and mixing with a sudden, overpowering burst of French cologne. There was an archway leading to an enormous dressing room, with a gilded three-way mirror in between the banks of rooms. Draco was seated on a plush cream armchair, observing while a short woman with a pincushion taped to her arm was fitting a luxurious pale grey suit on Lucius Malfoy.

Her mind snagged on something Lucius had said: _Krum might prefer her to his other suitors._ Viktor had other suitors? She blinked in surprise and ducked back behind the belt display.

Why should it have surprised her? Viktor was famous _all over the world_. Children in every country had posters of him taped to their walls. Everywhere he went, he was constantly being asked to sign soccer balls and tee shirts and jerseys. And, as this morning's _Prophet_ had demonstrated, he could be quite handsome in the right lighting.

This gave her a lot to think about. With a sigh and a last glower back in the general direction of the two Malfoy men, Hermione began searching for where Ginny might've gotten to.

* * *

><p>"Viktor?" Hermione said tentatively as she hurried down the icy street. There was a lot of background noise; he was probably in the airport by now.<p>

"Hermione. You read the _Prophet_?" Viktor asked, agitation leaking into his normally flat voice. He sounded tired. In spite of everything, she found herself smiling.

"Yes. I did. I don't mind though, really," she admitted. "I was just wondering how you were feeling."

"I am alvays fine, Hermy. But have you thought more about vat I said last night?" His voice returned to its usual seriousness, and she sighed.

"Of course I have," she admitted hoarsely. "I've thought of nothing else. I just..." Her words were interrupted by a cool female voice; apparently his plane was boarding.

"I haff to go now. I vill call you ven I land, okay?"

In classic Viktor style, he hung up immediately, leaving Hermione a little confused as she stood on the busy city street.

Hogsmeade in January was no treat, really — the snow by now was always grey and slushy, and frozen into hard little clumps that made driving or walking anywhere a nightmare. The sky was an unpleasant grey no matter what, and the only cheer one might find was in the store windows, with their obnoxious Valentine's Day displays. Hermione shoved her hands further into the pockets of her worn coat as she wove in and out of the crowds on the sidewalk, her breath clouding in the air in front of her, and squinted into each store window.

She was hit with the usual pang of melancholy that she always felt as Valentine's Day approached, even though it was nearly a month away. Every time she saw the lacy hearts, or the artificially dyed flowers, or the advertising of couple's specials for schmaltzy restaurants, she always outwardly denounced the holiday in all of its artificiality. But deep down, there was an ache for that kind of romance. And even though she told herself, staring at the little cardboard cutouts of cupid, that Viktor obviously wanted to give her that kind of romance...it just felt sort of hollow. Was this how one was supposed to feel after being proposed to? She didn't even feel old enough to get married. She was still relying on her parents, for the most part — it didn't seem right to go from that to marriage, with no interim in which to teach herself to really become independent. And she wanted to be independent, but being an activist turned out to not pay too much.

In fact, it didn't pay any money at all.

She should not have been spending any money, but Hermione went inside her favorite cafe anyway for a hot chocolate. The cafe was mostly empty at this time of day, which was her favorite. If only she had brought her laptop or a book! Tiny tables crowded in the middle, while a stage for poetry readings and small bands took up a larger portion. Off to the sides were built-in window seats, which were naturally the very best places to drink a cup of tea and read a book. After purchasing her overly expensive hot chocolate, Hermione was about to leave, when a familiar figure caught her eye.

So this was where Voldemort did his dirty work — he was sitting on one of the window seats in the very back of the cafe, on his laptop, concentrating. Lucius' words from that afternoon came back to her: _Riddle said he admires the girl...found her an intriguing woman_...

Was it true? It had to be; Lucius had no reason to lie to his son. So then, Voldemort had apparently not been too offended by her threat from the night before. Seeing him again caused a little jolt of anticipation to hit her stomach, though she wasn't quite sure why. Smiling, with her courage bolstered by this rumor of his good opinion, Hermione strode with forced confidence over to him.

"Good afternoon, Tom Riddle," she greeted pleasantly before sipping her hot chocolate. She noted he was wearing his glasses again; his dark eyes flicked up to her. Up close she was hit with a burst of that tantalizing scent of his skin. His cheeks were slightly flushed, presumably from the chilly air, and his dark waves still looked rumpled.

"Out and about during the day? I didn't think you'd have a job. Did mummy and daddy give the go-ahead on that hot chocolate? It is their money, after all," he replied, pulling off his dark horn-rimmed glasses and letting them dangle in his hand. Hermione's temper flared and she forgot about how handsome he was.

"My finances are none of your business," she snapped harshly. Tom sniggered and put his glasses on again, returning to his laptop. "So who are you trashing today?" Her voice was more of a sneer than she had intended, and she felt a bit guilty about it.

"Oh, so many people. There are hardly enough hours in the day," he said vaguely, waving his hand slightly.

Hermione stood there with her hot chocolate, momentarily debating whether she ought to leave or not. Voldemort was not giving her any indication either way of which one she should do, and even though she had been uproariously angry at him the night before, Lucius' hint at Tom Riddle not being totally averse to her had given her a warming to him. It was rare for people to like her; even rarer for them to be intrigued by her.

That made up her mind for her. Hermione plopped down into the chair across from him. He glanced up at her again, apparently amused. "You know, _you_ may not have anything to do all day, but the rest of us do."

"I'm just sitting here," she said defensively. "I won't bother you, I promise."

Even as she said this, he was rolling his eyes.

"So is this how you occupy your time? Bothering more important, more intelligent people?" he queried as he returned to his typing.

"_No_. I volunteer at a number of organizations and work on my causes at night," she parried. As she said the words aloud, her face grew hot with embarrassment. It had always seemed noble before, but in front of Voldemort she saw her life from a new perspective, and the image was one she did not like. "Just for now," she added hastily. Voldemort arched an elegant brow at her, but Hermione had tired of embarrassing herself in front of him. He certainly didn't _act_ like he found her so intriguing. "But what about you? What's it like being a critic?"

Voldemort glowered at her over the top of his screen.

"It was rather relaxing, actually, until I started getting harassed by spoiled little know-it-alls," he replied tartly. His words stung and Hermione's grip tightened on her hot chocolate before she rose from her seat.

"I'm not spoiled," she said hotly. Voldemort had apparently decided to ignore her, because he was quite transfixed by something on his screen. Out of curiosity, Hermione leaned in to see what was so entrancing.

It was a cat waterskiing.

"Now, _this_ is true talent, Miss Troll," he was saying with a philosophical air, pointing to the screen. "Look at this cat. This is a cat who has learned a marketable skill — that's better than approximately ninety five percent of the human population!"

"You just found that just now to irritate me, didn't you?" she eyed him shrewdly, and Voldemort winked at her gamely. Even though he had meant to be rude, the overall effect was still rather sexy, and heat crept up into her neck and cheeks.

"Looks like you're not completely mentally handicapped after all. Good job!" he replied sarcastically. Hermione shook her head but found herself grinning as she left the cafe. She stopped in the doorway and waved to him.

"Nice talking to you, Tom," she said pointedly.

"Of course, Miss Troll," he replied easily as he made a show of Accio'ing 'snakes on planes.'

* * *

><p>Tom watched Hermione walk down the road from his cosy little nook in the cafe. In the throngs of drably dressed people, she looked remarkably small and vulnerable. A large truck barreled by her and sprayed a wall of filthy grey slush all over her. Tom smirked as Hermione apparently lost her temper, for she hurled her cup of hot chocolate at the retreating vehicle. She seemed to instantly regret it, however, for she hastily trotted after the cup to pick it back up. <em>She <strong>would<strong> hate littering_, Tom thought, shaking his head.

For all of his bashing of her play, he had to admit that Hermione Granger had a firmer grasp of political issues than her fellow spoiled-recent-graduates seemed to have. Even if the play had been horribly boring, it had contained quite a bit of accurate information. It seemed this young girl suffered from a potent combination of a love of knowledge and fact as well as a profound lack of understanding of what others found entertaining. At the very least, she didn't seem to be doing all of this for show — she did seem to have ideals.

Tom closed the window where a video of a boa constrictor — one of his favorite animals; not that anyone knew that — was wearing sunglasses and slithering along an airplane. _Back to work_. He perused the online editions of _The Daily Prophet_ and the _Hogsmeade Times_, as usual. Today they were filled with speculations on Hermione Granger, complete with rather embarrassing photographs of her. He had to admit that he was a bit curious as well as to how a man like Krum — a total jock with very little intellectual leanings — might end up with a girl like Hermione Granger. But of course, he wasn't curious enough to actually ask around about it.

In Tom's opinion, his life was very much like an epic novel revolving around him, with just the right amount of action, adventure, drama, and suspense thrown in when it suited him. And, in a lot of ways, it had been as such. As a consequence, he spent little energy or interest in other people unless it directly benefitted him.

The next order of business was to check the _Quibbler. _Odd? Yes. Annoyingly left-wing and liberal? Certainly. Interesting? ...Not usually. But it was important for him to keep up on all possible fronts of information, and so in resignation he went to their page — right after he double-checked that his sound was set to mute. Oftentimes the _Quibbler_ had some idiotic little jingle to accompany their front page on their website.

The _Quibbler_ was a rather embarrassing case of a newspaper, and their online edition was no better. Most likely a toddler on drugs could have designed a less horrifying website, but that was actually a rather apt definition of its editor-in-chief, Xenophilius Lovegood. He once had been Philip Lovegood, but apparently found 'Philip' too common. _Not that I can throw stones here_, thought Tom with a grin. He too had taken issue with his common, boring first name, but that was a different story entirely — and one that no one would ever hear again, if he had any say in it. Which of course, he did.

The top headline was something about a rare strain of marijuana plant; Tom listlessly skimmed the article and then moved on, taking a gulp of his black coffee...

...which he promptly spit out in horror when his eyes landed on the next article. Through the splashes of coffee, he could just make out the headline:

_Famed Critic Tom 'Voldemort' Riddle Implicated in Albus Dumbledore's Murder?_

Tom hastily snatched a napkin and shot a look at a teenager that had been giggling at his embarrassing reaction; the glare promptly silenced the child. He wiped off his screen as his sharp mind began formulating a plan. It wasn't worth it to try to reason with Xenophilius; talking to the man was like trying to kill a butterfly with a safety pin. And besides, demanding to have the article removed was a moot point, as it had been published for some time now.

_What am I worrying about?_ No one read the _Quibbler_ anyway. And even if they did, they would dismiss the article as another one of Xenophilius' ridiculous notions. Had anyone paid an iota of attention when the deranged editor had proclaimed the previous Mayor, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was, in fact, a retired drag queen?

Although that actually had been true, so now Tom was a little bit worried. He forced himself to relax. He tried to get some work done, but he found he couldn't properly trash other people's works of art when he was so distracted by this annoyance. Where on earth had Xenophilius found out such secrets?

Could he have the _Quibbler_ shut down? Tom tapped his lips in thought. No, it'd look suspicious — he'd never be able to hide that he had done it, no matter how well he covered his tracks.

He heaved a sigh. There was nothing he could do now. His hands were tied. The best he could hope for was that anyone who saw the article would find it laughable. His only comfort was that that _was_ likely exactly how things would proceed. No one took the _Quibbler _seriously.

Right?


	3. Lesson Three: Flames

**Panned**

Author's Notes: So, I got a beta! The lovely, insanely talented (seriously, she is also an awesome artist), brilliant, witty, and superduper badass wingedmercury has beta'd this chapter. Check out her stories if you read Naruto; she is a goddess of the crack!fic and also has some serious fics that are unusual and well-written. Everyone tell wingedmercury **thanks** for making this chapter a billion times better than it originally was!

Also, thanks to everyone for all the lovely reviews: **le-femme-cavalier, Que9, cocoartist, Lady Riddle-Black, ****BananaDrama, Shubhs, unknownkyitty, Molly Dooker, m0nt, wingedmercury, Anon, AmazingMe123, SexySpectrum, A. Deca, MeriLynelle, SamarKanda, Cellar, HerGoldenWings, Kissable-Luxury, Annevader, Zombie Reine, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, and LittleHellCat.**

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

* * *

><p><strong>Lesson Three: Flames<strong>

* * *

><p>The rest of the day, Hermione was simply out of sorts. She couldn't wrap her mind around it, which was especially frustrating because there was rarely a problem that she could not solve. Even at her volunteer position at an agency that made calls for donations — a position she <em>excelled <em>at, due to her determination — she could not seem to focus. She stared out the window and listlessly made calls, always hanging up before she had to hear the person on the other end explain why they couldn't sponsor a Burmese orphan.

An uncharacteristic cynicism was washing over her. The weird feeling she'd gotten when talking to Tom Riddle — the feeling that she wasn't as noble as she viewed herself to be — would not leave her alone.

There was a notion she was beginning to have: that none of her volunteer work made a difference.

And not only that, but she couldn't just keep relying on her parents like this. Instead of feeling proud of herself, she was overcome with self-disgust. She had always been so brilliant — was this really the best use of her brilliance?

So when she was done her shift, Hermione found her feet leading her to Hogsmeade's High Street. It was evening, so many of the shops were closing, but she patrolled the street and went into every shop that had a 'Help Wanted' sign, and almost as though on auto-pilot, she began picking up applications.

A zen-like feeling descended on her as she walked, erasing the cynicism she'd been plagued with all day. Picturing actually being able to tell her parents that she no longer needed their money was a prospect that nearly made her salivate. Hermione had always longed for independence, and suddenly her world seemed to open up as she imagined a regular (if small) paycheck.

But even as she was feeling more confident about everything else, she still didn't know what to tell Viktor.

Was it wrong to not respond to his proposal? Picturing how he might be feeling made her cringe with guilt; so when she got home, she sat at her little section of counter in her kitchenette and began filling out the applications to avoid thinking of it. She had gotten over fifty of them, and for several hours, there was no noise except Crookshank's claws clicking on the linoleum as he paced listlessly, and the scratching of her ballpoint pen against the copy paper.

She finished around midnight, and sat back staring at her work with a sense of accomplishment that she hadn't realized she'd been missing. In school, she had loved the sense of fulfillment and accomplishment that went with finishing a complicated assignment or perfecting a study guide. It had boosted her self-esteemwhen everything else was competing to bring it down. Now, she didn't feel so bad about Voldemort's critique, or that awful picture of her in the _Prophet_. Her horizon seemed to broaden as she looked at the stack of applications, covered with her precise, tiny, neat handwriting.

She was too keyed-up to sleep, so Hermione got out her laptop, made a pot of tea, and began checking her email. Out of habit more than conscious effort, she found herself checking Voldemort's blog.

_**On January 14th, 2011, Voldemort wrote:**_

_Before another one of you morons sends me another nonsensical email: __**yes**__. I have read the _Daily Prophet_. Yes, I was amused by the photographs. And, yes, I do have some thoughts on it._

Below the text was a series of photos of other sports stars, posing at various events with their wives and girlfriends. All looked vapid and slutty, their skin nearly glowing orange from self-tanner. Even though she was strictly against laughing at other women, Hermione could not quite stifle a snigger.

_Sing with me: if I only had a brain! Really, I'm just relieved she isn't orange._

"Oh my goodness," Hermione muttered, massaging her temples. Ever since he had trashed S.P.E.W., she had been very reluctant to laugh at any of his comments, no matter how hilarious they were. Still, her heart had been warmed by his defense of her, and she found herself looking up his email on his blog.

_**Voldemort/Tom Riddle/Whatever you want to be called:**_

_**Thanks for the post. I appreciate it.**_

Her fingers hovered tentatively over the keyboard before she finished her email:

_**-Miss Troll**_

* * *

><p>"Tom, m'boy, you still don't look a day over twenty-five!" boomed the oily Horace Slughorn as he clapped a fat, clammy, be-ringed pudgy hand on Tom's back. Tom resisted the urge to pick up one of the nearest ice sculptures and bash the greasy man's head in, and instead pasted on an impression of someone who actually liked talking to Slughorn.<p>

"Perhaps you ought to get your eyes checked, Horace. My birthday was just a few weeks ago," he replied pleasantly, adding a wink in the direction of Slughorn's female companion, who was, as they always were, much too young for the man. And as always, her head looked full of hot air and he could have gone tubing down her cleavage. She blushed telephone-booth red at his attention, but luckily Slughorn was oblivious to his date's desire for Tom.

"I'm hardly a gentleman at all; I've just realized I haven't introduced this gorgeous young lady here," he chortled so heartily that port sloshed over the rim of his cut-crystal glass. "Tom, this is Pansy Parkinson. One of Draco Malfoy's very best friends. She is finishing up her doctorate in Art History; been studying in Paris." Pansy looked expectantly to Tom, apparently waiting for the perfunctory praise of her diligence and academic nature.

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," he said, raising his untouched glass of champagne to her slightly. Pansy flushed with pleasure. At that moment, Draco sidled up to them, his blonde hair slicked back and his steely eyes accentuated by his pale grey suit.

"Draco! It's been too long," Pansy shrieked, throwing her arms sycophantically around Draco.

"Hey, Pansy," greeted Draco a bit absently. Pansy let out a shriek of delighted laughter. _Donkey in a dress? Or squealing sow? Can't decide_, Tom mused.

"A little reunion we have here! This is so exciting," beamed Slughorn. Tom cast his eyes around the ballroom in search of someone more useful to speak with, but something caught his attention. "So many interesting guests here...did you see, there's Igor Karkaroff — owner of the Bulgarian football team," Slughorn continued eagerly, drawing Draco and Pansy's attention across the room to a weak-jawed man in furs.

"Speaking of reunions and football...have you heard about Krum's rumored fiancee?" Draco sneered, mostly to Pansy. She let out another shriek and Tom winced. _Why_ didn't people come with silencing buttons? He would've liked Pansy so much better if she were on mute...

"I know! That runt Hermione Granger. God, she looked like a beaver...in more ways than one."

Draco and Pansy had a good little chuckle at Pansy's poorly wrangled double-entendre. _Snore_. Though it was interesting that Hermione Granger seemed to be acquainted with these two. He masked a smirk that was brought on by imagining her in school with them. _She probably didn't put up with their idiocy_. If she had the guts to stand up to him, it was unlikely that too many people scared her.

Slughorn had acquired an odd, dreamy shine to his eyes — a look that usually preceded intrigue and gossip. The portly man leaned in closer.

"Yes, that is a most intriguing proposal...most of us were under the impression that Krum wasn't dating at all..." he remarked loftily, smirking into his glass of port.

Slughorn clearly knew something. He was also clearly taunting Tom, just begging for him to ask. Tom stayed on, patiently waiting for the man to divulge. He had to admit that Hermione Granger was a point of intrigue — or at the very least, amusement — for him. While he'd never fall prey to Slughorn's idiotic gossiping tactics unless absolutely necessary, he was perfectly willing to sacrifice a few moments of his own precious time if it meant learning something amusing or embarrassing about the frizzy-haired playwright. "I wonder...is it any coincidence that we found out about this Hermione Granger directly after Krum's manager and parents encouraged him to marry for his image?"

Tom snorted.

"His image? He's a footballer. He's paid to kick his balls, not squeeze them."

Pansy, again, laughed unreasonably hard for an unreasonable amount of time at Tom's pun. Tom tried to hide his disgust, but some things just cannot be faked.

"It's amusing that you've used that wording, Tom. He's always been plagued by rumors as being gay, actually," Slughorn explained, his piggy little eyes glittering. Tom nearly gaped at Slughorn, but caught himself at the last moment. As a journalist, blogger, and critic, he was in deep trouble if he was the last to know about something _this_ juicy. He had to act unsurprised.

"Because he hadn't married yet; there's no basis for those rumors..." Tom timed his pause and arranged his features into an expression of suspicion, "...Unless _you_ know something, Horace? I don't doubt you'd know more about it than I." His careful flattery was always a win with Slughorn; the man practically glowed from the subtle praise.

"Let's just say a large sum of money was paid to a large group of people after a sighting at a gay bar in Germany," Slughorn said with an exaggerated air of mystery. Draco and Pansy were clearly not following the conversation; Pansy was gazing at Tom in undisguised lust and Draco was amusing himself by studying the rather revealing shape of Pansy's gown.

Tom took a swig of his champagne to give himself a moment to think. So Viktor was trying to avoid being pegged (in more ways than one, apparently) by marrying Hermione? Tom frowned, recalling his rendezvous with the bushy-haired fiancee from the evening before. No, there was no way in _hell_ that she was aware of this. He recalled her big brown eyes, so wide and innocent, as she had postulated that she might be in love with Viktor.

The conversation dissolved into a discussion of who was wearing the latest designer, and Tom mentally checked out. His FlooPhone buzzed in his pocket and he toyed with the idea of telling Hermione what he had learned tonight. She had emailed him, after all — he'd seen the email before he'd left for this venture but he'd not known what to reply.

He declined a profiterole from a passing waiter, but did accept a vodka tonic as he drew out his phone with his other hand, bypassing the large number of text messages to get to his email. _Why bother_? No reason to tell her. She was obviously not actually in love with Viktor, and if she couldn't figure out that the proposal was a farce, she deserved what she got.

With that decision made, Tom looked about the room for someone more interesting to occupy his time, and was relieved when he spotted Severus Snape, a fellow hater of humanity, scowling at Lucius Malfoy. There was the slightest hint of a smirk to Severus' lips; Tom would have happily bet his Avada Kedavra that Severus was smirking at Lucius' absurdly flamboyant attire. He made to stride across the room and perhaps make fun of Malfoy, but halfway there, a tall be-suited form barred his way.

"Riddle! How lovely to see you," greeted an ancient-looking man. He had twinkling, mischievous eyes and grey hair slicked back with a matching grey beard. In spite of appearing so old, he possessed a youthful and lively energy about him that was disarming. The heavy scent of stylish, expensive cologne permeated the air as Gellert Grindelwald, CEO of Gladrags, stood in Tom's way. His gleaming, slim-cut silvery suit was both ridiculous and yet refined, and as he reached out to shake Tom's hand, the light reflecting off the silvery threads nearly blinded Tom.

"Ah. Grindelwald. The tin man called; he wants his body back," he snarked, and moved to step around Grindelwald. But Grindelwald agilely matched his move and continued to stand in his way. Truth be told, Tom could feel his palms turn clammy. He had not known Grindelwald would show up to something as unfashionable as a Malfoy charity ball.

"Polite as ever. You were always a sweet boy." Grindelwald's tone was indulgent but his eyes were flashing with a rather violent dislike. Suddenly, he looked concerned, and he placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Tell me, has it been hard for you — financially, and emotionally — to step down from a regular dayjob?" The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smug grin as his grip tightened on Tom's shoulder.

_I need to end this here. _

"You know my profession, Grindelwald. The more you say, the more fodder I get," Tom replied smoothly before batting Grindelwald's gnarled, bony hand away easily. "Enjoy the party," he cast over his shoulder as he swerved past the old man.

Hatred for each other was boiling in their veins.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Hermione awoke to her phone chirping noisily and Crookshanks hissing his displeasure while taking refuge on top of her face. Hermione groaned and fumbled for her phone. <em>Who on earth...<em>?

"H-hey. Hermione?"

Ron's voice cracked slightly. Hermione bolted upright, sending a very unhappy Crookshanks flying, as she clutched the phone.

"Ron," she stammered, rubbing at her eyes. She squinted at the clock across the room. "It's three in the morning. Are you alright?"

There was silence for a moment and she checked her phone to see if they'd been disconnected. "Ron?" she tried again.

"S-sorry." She heard him exhale. "I was just...Can we talk?"

"Now? What's going on? Are you hurt?" Even as she spoke, Hermione was rising from her bed and searching for her jeans, shivering slightly at how cold it was outside of her blankets.

"Yes. No! I mean... can I just come over? We could go for a walk — or something." There was a defensiveness to his voice that worried Hermione even further. "I'll meet you at your apartment. I don't want you walking alone at this hour."

Hermione wrinkled her nose at his protectiveness, but decided that this was really not the moment to lecture him on her ability to take care of herself. She sighed.

"Alright, Ron, we can meet up. Just let me get dressed."

He hung up with the promise that he'd be there in twenty minutes, and Hermione finished dressing in her warmest sweater and thickest socks and boots. She parted the blinds with two fingers; in the orange light of her apartment complex's courtyard, she could see the snowflakes falling.

Ron had to be wanting to talk about Viktor's proposal, right? She couldn't fathom any other reason he might contact her so suddenly instead of Harry...unless he already had contacted Harry and hadn't been able to get in touch with him?

Was it egotistical of her to assume this was about her, anyway? What if something was horribly wrong?

She was so uneasy that she brushed her teeth twice without realizing it at first. Hermione never took long to get ready, so she was set to go well before Ron was due to arrive. With nothing to do, she began pacing around her kitchen, her keen mind running through the possible reasons that Ron might be driven to call her at such an hour and insist on meeting.

Ron never rang her doorbell; he always called her phone. Hermione opened the door to find him standing there, snowflakes caught in his hair and melting on his maroon jumper that his mum had knitted him. As always, there was that sting of regret when she saw him and his big blue eyes.

"You forgot a coat," she chided, unconsciously reaching out and brushing the snow off his jumper. Ron leapt back as though galvanized."S-sorry," she muttered, her cheeks flushing. "Why don't you come inside?"

"Can we just walk somewhere?"

Hermione was, in all honesty, relieved at his suggestion, because there were far too many memories here in this apartment from her time with Ron. Her stomach churning, she slipped on her old coat and paused to grab a scarf for Ron. It was dark blue, and had actually been knitted by Mrs. Weasley. She'd kept it in her top drawer all this time, unable to quite let it go.

"Here...Just take this so when you freeze to death, I'll be guilt-free," she tried to joke, shoving the scarf at him. Ron rolled his eyes and muttered a comment about her being too much like his mum under his breath, and wrapped it around his neck as Hermione locked her door.

In tense silence, they walked down to the freezing cold outside. The snow was melting when it hit the streets, and slush was gathering on the pavement. Their breaths clouded wetly in the air as they paused on the sidewalk, looking around. Hermione was positively _dying_ to begin firing questions at him, but she'd known Ron long enough to know that that was not the way to deal with him.

"We might as well walk this way,"Ron said, and Hermione hastened to walk beside him as they began walking down the street, their hands shoved in their pockets, their posture tight from the cold as well as the awkwardness of the situation.

And soon, even though she knew it was unwise, she could not stop herself from demanding answers.

"Well?" Hermione prompted after a few blocks. Hogsmeade was nearly silent in the night, though once in a while, a car or bus passed by on the road. As they approached the city's center, there was a bit more activity, especially in the all-night cafes, as the pubs had only recently closed. When they were closer to the High Street, they had to dodge raucous groups stumbling out of coffee chains, laughing too loudly and strictly at odds with the unease between Ron and Hermione.

She chanced a glance at Ron. "Why did you need to meet up?"

Ron kicked at the sidewalk as they walked with his trainer. Several times he opened his mouth, looking prepared to speak, but would close it at the last second.

"I wish you weren't thinking of marrying Vicky," he finally confessed. Years ago, he might've acted out in anger, but now, she knew he was as tired of the angst between them as she was.

She didn't know what to say to that. The weariness was translating to tears now and she blinked rapidly.

"Ron, you really haven't been in my life in the last couple of years — especially when I needed you," she replied carefully. She didn't want to upset him, but she didn't want to lie, either. Placating never worked with Ron, because he always actually believed it.

Ron stiffened visibly.

"Well, you haven't been in _mine_,"he countered. His words annoyed her — she hadn't been _accusing_ him; that hadn't been her point. Hermione pressed her lips together as they came to one of the coffee chains. Through the fogged glass, its lurid orange walls and brown and yellow logo looked surreal in the nighttime.

"It's too could to stand around out here; let's go in and get some coffee,"she said, opening the door for him. In stony silence they waited by the cashier to order. As Ron ordered an egg sandwich, Hermione's gaze roved over the little cafe with its sullen fluorescent lighting.

The bell chimed as new customers entered; it was Tom Riddle and a hook-nosed man with greasy black hair that gleamed grotesquely in the artificial light. Both wore tuxedos, but while Tom looked ready for the opera, the other man only seemed more batlike in his black tux. As though magnetized, her eyes met Tom Riddle's, and a knowing smirk curved his lips.

"Miss Troll," he greeted as he and his friend sidled up to her. For a breathless moment, Hermione wondered if he had gotten her email of thanks yet. Ron turned on his heel in the middle of ordering.

"Excuse me, sir, what did you want on your sandwich?" demanded the cashier— a teenaged girl with over-plucked eyebrows — in a clipped, irritable tone.

"Who are you calling Troll?" he asked hotly, scowling at Tom. _Here we go_, Hermione thought with a mental sigh. The hook-nosed man snorted and he and Tom shared a look that radiated disdain for Ron.

"It's an inside joke," Hermione interrupted hastily as she saw Ron's ears turn pink.

"_Sir_, do you want the bacon or sausage?"

Ron was plainly ignoring the cashier as he scowled at Tom Riddle.

"Wait a minute. Isn't this that guy who trashed your play?"

"SIR."

"I want bacon," Ron snapped over his shoulder. Hermione groaned as Tom's friend quietly made a squealing noise, like a pig, and Tom began sniggering uncontrollably.

"That's not funny," she said coldly. "How old are you — eight?"

"Then why are you trying so hard to not laugh?" Tom arched his brows at her, and Hermione simply turned back to Ron and the cashier.

"I'll have a plain black coffee," she ordered in a much nastier tone than she had intended, and the cashier quite sullenly punched in her order. _Great. Now she'll probably spit in it._

Ron shot Tom and the other man a dirty look before rather possessively leading Hermione to one of the corner tables. The way his arm automatically slung around her shoulders — as though she were a toy that the other men had been trying to play with — aggravated her. For a moment, she met Ron's blue eyes: this did not bode well for the rest of this discussion. Ron hastily drew his arm back and they sat down at one of the plastic tables, their knees bumping accidentally.

"Maybe we should try again," he postulated, fidgeting with a piece of a straw wrapper that had been left behind on the table. Hermione almost laughed at that idea, but luckily was cut off by the server bringing their orders out to them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom Riddle take a seat with his friend. Where had they come from, so late, that was black tie? It must have been a pretty fancy event. Snowflakes lingered on their shoulders, slowly melting in the stuffy heat of the cafe.

"Try again?" Hermione prompted, though she was afraid of the answer. Ron exhaled hotly; he was apparently struggling with whether to continue this at all or not.

"I mean, we could try at...us." He looked up again. "Or just... we could go on a few dates. Give it another go..."

"Where did this come from?"Hermione asked finally, blowing on her coffee to cool it. Ron must have been truly upset, because he was only picking at his egg sandwich. He exhaled again and rubbed at the back of his neck, in the process leaving a smear of ketchup on his cheek.

"I'm not the only one who thinks you shouldn't marry Vicky—"

Her patience wore thin at the name and her temper flared.

"Oh, for god's sake, Ron, either call him Viktor or Krum, but really? Vicky? After all these years?" she hissed. In her peripheral vision, she saw Tom studying her curiously.

Ron bristled at her words.

"You certainly never hesitated in making fun of Lavender," he snapped back. His ears were bright red now. Hermione scoffed.

"Ron, you and Lavender were using each other for sex. During our relationship." She paused, letting the words sink in. "I think that means I am awarded the ability to say whatever I want."

"We were on a break then—"

"That didn't mean you could just go and sleep around with any common slut!" Hermione exploded, forgetting herself. Ron's eyes were wide for a moment before his face flushed with anger.

"I wanted to have a real conversation about this, but if you still haven't forgiven me for that one stupid night..."His voice was very tightly controlled, as though he too were on the verge of exploding. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Ron, this happens every time we try to work through this. Maybe you should just accept that we can't make things work," she stated matter-of-factly. She was trying to be pragmatic in the face of his evident anger, but when she met his big blue eyes, her stomach roiled with upset at the obvious hurt there, ruining her resolve.

"Well, maybe if you would stop looking at me like that every time I see you, it'd be easier," he said, nearly squashing his sandwich. The smear of ketchup was still on his cheek and it was bothering her. Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak further; she simply reached up to her own cheek, wiping demonstratively at it. The gesture was one she had made countless times when they had been dating (because Ron was a complete slob when he ate), and Ron paled as he followed suit and wiped at his cheek, the ketchup coming off on his hand.

"I don't look at you any way in particular, Ron," she replied quietly after he had looked away. Ron bit into his sandwich instead of replying. "And I don't understand why you can't accept that we wouldn't work out."

"Sorry. Silly me. Thought you — I don't know — cared about me," he mumbled, though his words were acidic.

_Do not get mad. Getting mad would be unproductive. Do not get mad._

Hermione took deep, cleansing breaths until the urge to shout had passed.

"I do care about you. Very much so. And I wish we could fix things. But we can't. And the truth is...I like Viktor, a lot."

Ron didn't look convinced. He stared at her, chewing and swallowing mechanically. Abruptly he rose and tossed the wrapper in which his sandwich had come in the wastebin.

"Congratulations, then," he said coldly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He stormed out the door, leaving Hermione to sigh and massage her temples in frustration. Why did every privateconversation with Ron end like this? He always got unnecessarily angry and would storm out.

The coffee was disgusting, so Hermione tossed it in the trash. Tom and his friend were also leaving, and there was an awkward moment where Hermione was unsure of how much to acknowledge of what they had just witnessed.

"I'm off, Tom," said the hook-nosed man shortly, his beetle black eyes flicking to Hermione briefly, making her face feel warm. "As amusing as I find late-night coffee rendezvous..."

He left, and now Hermione and Tom were standing together in the doorway.

"This is embarrassing," said Hermione, covering her face with her hands. Tom snorted.

"No, it was hilarious. I can't wait to see this in the tabloids tomorrow," he replied easily, swinging open the door and gesturing for her to go through first. His usual combination of sweetness and sourness inhis demeanor was, as always, jarring; Hermione scowled even as she walked through the doorway. Still, she remembered how he had defended her on his website, and his defense made her feel better about everything. She couldn't bring herself to get too mad at him.

"Did you get my email?" she hoped she sounded casual as they fell into step, walking down the street. Tom slipped his gleaming FlooPhone from the jacket of his tuxedo and waved it at her.

"Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, yes. If only they found a way to immediately teleport somewhere...then again, that would make it easier for people to bother me, so never mind," he mused, shoving his hands in his pockets. Hermione rolled her eyes but her stomach was still fluttering with nervousness.

"I mean, I don't _need_ to be defended," she told him earnestly. They came to a crosswalk. Hermione had no idea of whether they were actually walking _together_ or if they just happened to be walking the same way, she couldn't rest easy. "But it's been so hard. I had no idea that everyone would know about this."

"Blah blah blah. Cry me a fucking river," he replied disinterestedly, stopping in front of Gladrags to eye a suit in the window. "How many girls would literally murder to be in your place right now?"

"I'm not like them, though," Hermione snapped, resisting the urge to smack him upside the head. He looked back at her from his examination of the suit. "I don't want to be famous for marrying someone."

"Then don't marry Krum. Problem solved."

"But what if I'm in love with him?"

Tom's lips curled as though he found this suggestion _hilarious_ but didn't deem it worth his time to even bother laughing at her. Hermione sighed. "Well, enough of that. I was thinking about the things you've said, about me just being a spoiled brat..." she drew in a breath, preparing herself to speak further, "...and I decided to get a job. Like a real one. So I've been applying to everywhere on High Street. But I still will keep my old volunteer jobs. This is just to make a bit of money, really."

"Is this where I give you a cookie and pat you on the head for being a good girl?" Tom pondered aloud, shooting her a smirk. Luckily, Hermione was becoming used to him, and the sting of his words was hurting less and less with every passing he simply didn't know how to be kind?

"No, but you could tell me how to potentially improve my play. I'm not giving up on S.P.E.W., and since your opinion holds a lot of clout, I'd like to hear your thoughts on what to change to make it better."

"Let's see...open your document on your computer," he began in an instructional tone. Hermione nodded eagerly.

"And then?"

"Select all of the text."

She was beginning to have a bad feeling of where he was going with this.

"And then hit 'backspace?'" she guessed shrewdly. Tom's eyes widened.

"You've got it! See, Miss Troll — I don't have to teach you _anything_. You already know the secrets to improving your own play! Looks like that expensive education is paying off after all."

"Are you ever nice?" she grumbled. They were nearing her neighborhood now. Was Tom Riddle actually walking her home? Wonders would never cease.

"I'm being extremely nice to you right now. I'm walking you home to make sure you don't get raped..." he paused and looked her over. "Though it occurs to me now that that's unlikely for you, Miss Troll."

"Ha ha," she said shortly. "Everyone knows that you're much more in danger of being sexually assaulted by someone you know and have some kind of relationship with than a random stranger. So really, you're a bigger threat than anyone else to me right now."

Tom threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, I can assure you that you are perfectly safe from me, Miss Troll, no matter how nasty I may seem."

"You don't seem that nasty right at the moment," Hermione admitted. They were approaching her complex now, and she felt a strange sense of impending loss. She didn't want to part with Tom; he was taking her mind off of her situation with Ron and it was a relief. "Why the tux, anyway?"

"I knew you were lusting after me," he accused triumphantly. "Like most clothing, I look really fantastic in tuxedos." Hermione slapped her forehead.

"Honestly, no. You look like a penguin in your tux," she snapped, even though this was a complete lie. In truth, he looked like a living work of art, but she wasn't about to admit _that_. Instead of being offended, however, Tom simply chuckled to himself.

"Charity ball thrown by the Malfoy family — no, that's not a joke, though it'd be quite a funny one if it were."

Hermione broke down in sniggers and was soon joined by Tom. Yes, the day the Malfoys were genuinely charitable would be the same day she would spot Satan strapping on his ice skates for the coldest day in Hell.

They came to the front door of her complex and stood in front of it, facing each other for a moment.

"Y-you don't actually think anyone would _know_ about that argument I just had...do you? Do you really think it will appear in the tabloids?" she asked uncomfortably, unable to meet his eyes. Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

"I didn't see any paparazzi, but you never know. Your friend was pretty rude to the cashier, so she might be more inclined to sell you out." He sounded so casual that Hermione winced. "Either way, you're a fool if you don't start taking these matters more seriously...unless you don't care how you're perceived."

"I don't," she said haughtily. She met Tom's shadow colored eyes and he was smirking at her. _As usual._

"That is a lie. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked about it."

Hermione groaned.

"Fine. I do care. It's annoying. I thought I would have been done with this nonsense but it's just like high school all over again."

"Didn't anyone tell you? High school _never_ ends," he said softly, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

"I can't imagine you had a difficult high school experience. You were probably the most popular guy in school and had everyone fawning at your feet and eating out of the palm of your hand," she grumbled, not even bothering to keep up the false pretense that he wasn't attractive. Tom looked thoughtful for a moment, and she held her breath — perhaps he _had_ experienced alienation...?

"That's about right," he finally said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, I don't think there were more than a handful of people who disliked me at all."

Hermione almost fell over.

"You are unbelievable," she said, shaking her head, as she grasped the handle of the front door. Tom laughed again, causing a little flutter to ripple through her tummy.

"Yes, I get that quite often," he jested. "Especially in bed."

"Don't look so pleased with yourself; that might have more to do with the genuine surprise of finding out you aren't half-demon or something after all."

Hermione paused and, staring at his smirk, she couldn't help but return the grin. For a moment, there was silence as they regarded each other.

"Thanks," she finally said, feeling shy again suddenly. "You really cheered me up." She let out a sigh. "I always tell Ron we won't work out, because we've _tried_, and—" she halted as Tom held up his hand, signaling for her to stop talking at once.

"Really, I don't care. No one cares, frankly. Obviously you must be giving him some inkling that he might have another chance, or else he wouldn't try again. Very..._coquettish_ of you, I'd say. That's in a bad way, mind you."

Hermione glowered at him.

"Didn't you hear our conversation? I _told_ him —"

"You still went to meet him in the middle of the night," he pointed out, arching his brows at her pointedly. "You still gave him attention when he came crying for it. If you were really trying, you would have simply refused to meet him at all, to prove you are completely disinterested."

Hermione squirmed uncomfortably. "This sort of behavior is always tiresome, especially from girls such as yourself. You're so pleased to have male attention that you can't quite let go of it, even as you hurt the other person in the process," he continued, his gaze heavy. It was like he was dissecting her, and it was not fun at all.

"You really love summing up my faults, don't you?" she asked bitterly, her cheeks practically aflame now. Tom's pale lips twisted into a half-smirk that made him look decidedly roguish.

"I'm a critic for a reason," he pointed out simply. "Besides, it's not as though this is a fatal flaw. You just need higher self esteem...then you won't depend on others for your own validation."

Hermione blinked. That was actually quite a good point.

"My self esteem has been in shambles lately..." she admitted slowly. Tom rolled his eyes broadly.

"Unless you start paying me, I'm not going to be your therapist and listen to your problems. Good night, Miss Troll." He turned, the snow swirling around him mesmerizingly, and for a moment looked back over his shoulder with that same half-smirk. It felt private, inviting, as though he wished to tell her a secret. "And good luck at your new job...That is, in the unlikely event that anyone actually hires you..."

"Thanks. Good luck lazing around in cafes in expensive sweaters and crushing others' self esteem," Hermione replied. He winked and saluted her, and then sauntered down the street. Hermione watched him go. At this moment, he looked like something out of a very posh movie with his black tuxedo a dark smudge against the snowy Hogsmeade landscape.


	4. Lesson Four: Exegesis

Panned

Author's Note: Special thanks to **wingedmercury** for beta-ing this chapter (read her stories if you like Naruto!), and **MeriLynelle** for brainstorming with me on Grindelwald. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: **A. Deca, TK Grimm, Kissable-Luxury, MeriLynelle, BananaDrama, le-femme-cavalier, Molly Dooker, (), moor, Que9, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, Victoria, Cellar, Annevader, Shubhs, wingedmercury, HerGoldenWings, and Account Currently on Hiatus.**

Please review!

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Lesson Four: Exegesis<strong>

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><p>By the time Tom returned to his townhouse, his tux was soaked in the shoulders from the melting snow, and his fingers were nearly numb from the cold. His eyes burned with exhaustion; these charity balls always went on far too late, and by the end he was usually too keyed up to go back home and to bed anyway — especially when he ran into Gellert Grindelwald.<p>

_And there's another one tomorrow night...or rather tonight_, he grumbled inwardly after a glance at the clock on the wall. He undid his bowtie in front of his hall mirror, staring at his reflection. His home was silent, but distantly he could hear the thumping of his neighbor's speakers, hammering out the driving but monotonous beat of club music.

He was admittedly feeling a bit lightheaded from all the champagne he had consumed over the course of the evening; after running into Grindelwald he had been filled with the usual clamor of triumph and rage. Grindelwald sought to ruin his life — and in a way, he had been nearly successful.

But he would never get even with Tom.

The kicker was that while Tom had always despised Albus Dumbledore, he really had never intended for him to _die_. It had been a sort of happy coincidence, really. Most people might call him heartless for feeling no remorse over Albus Dumbledore's death, but Tom called himself pragmatic.

The ironic thing was that Albus Dumbledore had been the one person standing in the way of his advancing career, and Tom had always been sure that when Albus died, his career would have continued on its path. But as it turned out, Albus dying was the one thing that could also bring his career to a screeching halt.

Going down this road of thought was always dangerous for Tom, especially alone and drunk at night. He wisely bypassed the bar where all of his fine wines — gifts from his elite 'friends' — were stashed, and instead gulped down glass after glass of icy water, waiting for sobriety to return.

Still feeling inebriated and overheated, Tom flung his tuxedo jacket and shirt onto the arm of his dark green leather sofa, and sat down heavily at the other end, where his laptop was waiting. He perused his usual news blogs and checked his email before he abruptly remembered something he'd learned that evening. Amidst running into Grindelwald and gallivanting about with Severus, he had nearly forgotten.

It wasn't hard to Accio the facts: Viktor Krum was suspected of having had a homosexual affair with a German man last summer. But as far as he could tell, that was the only allegation. Otherwise, the paparazzi had little to say about Krum. He led a fairly boring life aside from his career. There were plenty of old pictures from Krum's brief time at Hogwarts University, and Hermione Granger was in most of them. In spite of himself, Tom realized he was actually grinning. In most of the photographs, Hermione was talking passionately about something, a gleam in her eyes that was becoming familiar to Tom...and Viktor was listening, his expression one of confusion. Tom guessed that Viktor was no idiot — he couldn't see Hermione ever tolerating an idiot — but he could see why there were rumors that he was mentally subnormal. He looked like the classic footballer, with his broad structure, close-cropped hair, and somewhat glazed-looking expression.

So was Viktor Krum actually gay? The results were as of yet inconclusive; Tom studied the photographs from the German nightclub repeatedly and could not be sure that Viktor was merely having a good time with a close friend or looking for a squeeze.

Maybe Hermione was even aware of it? Tom scoffed at that: Hermione did not strike him as the sexually liberal type. He highly doubted she would be open to her fiancee using unknown German men to take care of his 'needs.'

Then again, he also highly doubted Hermione would end up marrying Krum at all, especially given that she was meeting other men in the middle of the night. _Maybe she's a little minx after all..._ he mused, chuckling a bit. Making a mental note to be on the lookout for more regarding Viktor's sexuality (which made him feel a bit creepy, admittedly), Tom shut his computer down.

Just as he was alighting the stairs, he heard a knock on his front door. Through the glass, he spotted a familiar wild-haired silhouette. _Bellatrix._ He considered simply ignoring her and was about to do just that when he heard the lock click open and he groaned, banging his head against the wall. She must have found the spare key.

"Tom, you hardly talked to me last night. I was beginning to think you were upset with me," Bellatrix whined as she came in, a gust of snow entering with her. The door slammed behind her and grudgingly Tom turned to face her as her hungry dark eyes roved over his shirtless form.

"Bella, it is five in the morning, and I am exhausted. Leave before I make you." There was no reasoning with Bellatrix when she was like this; she sauntered up the front hall, leaving her glittering purse on the low table below the mirror, and twined her body around his. Her hands moved lower and she let out a disappointed mewl against his neck when his body clearly did not respond to her touch. Anyone else and he'd be worried that he was growing old before his time, but with Bellatrix it was hard to work up any excitement.

"I missed you," she whined, her lips moving against his collarbone. Tom let out an irritable sigh.

"How can you miss me? You never leave," he pointed out, pulling back from her. Bellatrix pouted.

"I know you don't like it that we're going behind Rodolphus' back, but I _told_ you, he doesn't mind," she urged, approaching him again. Tom sniggered.

"No, I'm not nearly that moral," he said, pushing her away. Was this an appropriate time to call the police. Yes, she had used a key to enter, but wasn't this sexual harassment? Still, his baser instincts were crying out that it _had_ been a while... And, in spite of her (many) flaws, Bellatrix was a beautiful woman. There was just the small problem that she was mostly repulsive to him.

"Rodolphus is going out of town today," Bellatrix began breathlessly, drawing little circles on his chest with her long red nails. "And I haven't a date for the Greengrass' benefit."

"Boo hoo," said Tom shortly. No way in _hell_ was she roping him into going to that stupid thing with her. "Bellatrix, go home. I'm tired, and you are getting on my nerves."

Bellatrix snarled before stalking away like a dejected cat in heat. "And leave my key on the table," he added. She froze in the doorway, and very slowly, set her key on the little table before leaving. When he was sure that she wasn't coming back in again, he locked the door and with a sigh went to bed. Just as he was about to fall asleep, it occurred to him that he ought to find a more permanent way to discourage Bellatrix's advances.

* * *

><p>In spite of going to bed so late, Hermione woke when her alarm went off and rose immediately. She had a number of important missions to complete today — the first one of which would be occurring at the closest newsstand possible. She had not forgotten Tom Riddle's point about her argument with Ron potentially being a subject of the tabloids, and she wanted to be prepared for it.<p>

She threw on her coat and sprinted down the stairs, realized she had forgotten to lock her apartment, and ran back up. By the time she was actually outside, she was panting for breath. Her panic was rising as she ignored her fatigue and ran as far as she could.

"Ello, 'Ermione! How are yeh doing terday?" the familiar friendly, booming voice of Hagrid greeted her as she skidded to a stop in front of his newsstand.

"Hello, Hagrid. Is it alright if I flip through the tabloids for a moment?" she panted. Hagrid nodded and automatically went to make her usual plain black coffee as Hermione began wildly pushing apart the magazines in search of some sign of her encounter with Ron.

By the time she was satisfied that there was no record of the argument, she straightened to find Hagrid furrowing his brow at her suspiciously and holding her steaming styrofoam cup. She paid him and accepted the coffee, still feeling a bit scattered.

"Should I ask?" he said cautiously. Hermione sighed and pushed her hair, which was a bit sweaty now, from her face.

"I've become a bit of a target for the tabloids," she explained in resignation. "Because of Viktor proposing, and all. And I'm just worried that I'll see another awful picture of myself." For some reason, Hermione was reluctant to relate her encounter with Ron to Hagrid. It may have been because Hagrid knew Ron just as well as he knew her, but deep down, she worried that Hagrid would view the situation the same way Tom Riddle had: as her stringing along Ron, killing him with 'kindness' and reveling in the male attention.

Hagrid smiled kindly at her.

"Don' worry about the picture, 'Mione," he consoled her, instantly lifting her spirits. Somehow Hagrid always managed to do that. "No one who counts would pay any attention ter that."

"Thanks, Hagrid," said Hermione sincerely. She made a mental note to bake something for Hagrid sometime. She'd knitted him things before, and in retrospect she rather thought even her terrible baking might be preferable. In spite of her horrendous knitting abilities, however, Hagrid still always wore the rather lumpy mittens she had knitted him, even though everyone else had commented on how atrocious they really looked. "How have you been?" she asked hastily, feeling a bit selfish for dumping her problems on him. Another customer came by and ordered a hot sandwich and Hermione stepped aside, sipping her coffee and waiting. Now that she knew there were no pictures of her and Ron eating together, she felt much more relaxed.

"Oh, yeh know, been fine. Fang's sick again, and the vet's bills are just too damn pricey," Hagrid said mildly as he handed the customer their sandwich. Hermione was baffled by how Hagrid could be relaxed about _everything_, even his pet being sick. Whenever Crookshanks had any problems, she was a nervous wreck. Actually, any time there was anything wrong in her life, she became a nervous wreck. _Probably ought to work on that_, she mused guiltily. "Harry told me about that critic's review of S.P.E.W.," Hagrid added a bit darkly, frowning.

And in spite of everything, Hermione was smiling now.

"I'm over it," she said honestly. "Now I'm just trying to find a way to improve it. I talked to that critic — Tom Riddle — and he actually had some really good points about why it was so unsuccessful."

Used to others being bored to tears by what she was interested in, Hermione paused, giving Hagrid a chance to stop her from rambling. But, as always, he was all ears, and was waiting eagerly for her to continue. "And," she continued, "He said it was sort of irrelevant for the audience that is receiving it...so, I have to find a way to make it more relevant to the Hogsmeade socialites."

Hagrid chuckled as he handed another customer her coffee and a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "What?"

Hagrid shook his head at her.

"Good luck with that, 'Ermione." He looked her over. "Do I need ter remind yeh that yer as far from those socialites as yeh can get?"

Hermione's cheeks burned. "Yeh don' know a thing about being an immigrant _or_ a socialite."

Hermione held up her chin haughtily as Hagrid continued to chuckle and shake his head.

"_Well._ Then I'll just have to do more research," she sniffed. Hagrid shrugged.

"S'no point. No motivation for these rich people to care more about lowly immigrants," he said mildly. Hermione could see that there was no convincing Hagrid, and she decided to give up for now. Still, it planted a seed in her mind. Hagrid was right — she had no idea of the life of the socialites in Hogsmeade. How could she possibly pander to an audience with which she was unfamiliar?

Maybe she would have to find some way inside the upper crust crowd of Hogsmeade... but how to go about it?

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm sry about last nite. Can we have a do-over of that convo?<strong>_

Hermione shrugged off the usual irritation that plagued her when people couldn't even _write out the whole damn word_ in text messages before hitting 'reply.' Her fingers hovered over the keys of her phone as she considered typing her assent to Ron, but at the last moment, she changed her mind.

_**I would like to hang out with you AS FRIENDS, but in terms of Viktor, we've nothing left to discuss**_**. **

It was a hard text message to send, but in the end she felt the better for it. Hermione stashed her phone in her coat pocket before continuing on her trek about Hogsmeade. Only a few more applications left to drop off, and then she would return to her flat to do some research on the glossy world of Hogsmeade's elite... She was pleased to have a project, but she was also anxious about it. There was no obvious starting point for this particular project, and no clear path. Still, this was the biggest challenge she had had in years.

She passed by Gladrags and smirked to herself, recalling how Tom had eyed the suit in the window, before stopping stock-still on the road, annoying the people around her who were in a hurry to wherever.

"Oh my god," she stammered aloud.

Why the _hell_ hadn't she seen it before? Now that she could see it, the solution was so obvious that she was humiliated by her own uncharacteristic stupidity.

She couldn't just research the socialites. She had to _become_ one of them.

Okay, so maybe becoming a socialite was impossible, just like it was sort of impossible for her to become an illegal immigrant. But she couldn't just Accio the thought processes of an elitist — she had to experience them for herself.

Had she supported littering (which she absolutely, under any circumstances, did not) she would have tossed her applications over her shoulder that very moment. What was the prime stomping grounds for the rich and famous of Hogsmeade? Gladrags. Obviously.

She just had to solve the teensy tiny problem of actually getting a job there.

Hermione began striding down the road, breathless from the excitement of coming up with a plan. Already her keen mind, which was a bit rusty from lack of use, was formulating all kinds of plots. By the time she reached her flat, she had her first step detailed. She was just sitting down at her laptop when her phone began chirping.

"Yes?" Hermione demanded testily without checking the caller ID, as she tended to do when consumed with one of her plots.

"Geez, sorry for bothering you. I know you're probably busy saving handicapped Lithuanian beetles or something," Ginny replied sourly on the other end. Hermione exhaled and was about to snap at her when she recalled that Ginny happened to be an integral part of her plan.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, Gin. Must be that time of the month," she said sweetly, doing her best impression of someone who didn't mind being interrupted for what was likely petty gossip or complaints about Harry's messy flat.

"I'll get over it, I promise. Anyway, everyone's getting together tonight at Dean and Seamus' for drinks. Are you in? Please say you're in; I need your cool logic when Dean and Harry start snarking at each other," Ginny begged in a rushed voice. Hermione rolled her eyes broadly. It was true that she was one of the few people who could effectively reign in Harry when he lost his temper. Ginny was also typically good at it, but considering she and Dean had had a particularly passionate relationship preceding Ginny and Harry's relationship (and considering Ginny had always been rather vague about where one relationship had ended and the other had begun), she wasn't the best person to save _that_ situation.

Dean and Harry had been teammates on the football team at Hogwarts, which for some reason made the war over Ginny all the more bloody. _Boys._ She was just relieved that they hadn't been playing American football together, because that sport seemed so _violent_ compared to soccer, and the boys would have been able to do so much more damage to each other on the field.

Speaking of boys, Ron would undoubtedly be there. Was it wise to attend a group get-together at which he would be present, after the past twenty four hours?

_If I don't go, he'll know it's because of him... _Hermione resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall. With Tom's critique of her behavior towards Ron in mind, this whole situation seemed even more tiresome than it had before.

"Yes. I'll go," she growled grudgingly. Ginny squealed her pleasure and hung up abruptly before Hermione had the chance to say anything more. _Oh well. I'll just have to ask her tonight. _

Ron hadn't texted back yet, so Hermione resumed her initial mission and checked her email. She gasped when there was a new message from none other than Tom himself, in reply to the email she had sent about his defense of her.

_**Miss Troll —**_

_**I accept payment in deletions of abhorrent plays. Remember, the backspace is your best friend. (You probably have no other friends anyway.)**_

_**Kisses! (ha. You wish.) Voldemort **_

Hermione rolled her eyes but found herself grinning.

_**Tom —**_

_**I happen to have a new project going, and was wondering if you'd be willing to offer some insight. Could I interview you, by any chance? I could pay you. And fear not: the backspace key and I have become intimately involved. **_

_**Hugs, (Just in case I do have cooties — and they are contagious — after all. You could use some humbling.) Miss Troll**_

Satisfied with her email, Hermione sent it, feeling a flutter of excitement ripple inside her. Now that the email was sent, she felt restless, and even as she went about her usual internet errands, she obsessively refreshed her email, even though it hadn't even been enough time for any human to actually even read an email.

* * *

><p>"Thank god. I thought I was going to die without you," Ginny greeted, jokingly throwing her arms around Hermione as she stepped in the door. Hermione nearly didn't hear her over the thumping techno.<p>

It was actually sort of funny that Dean and Seamus were best friends, and yet made sense, in a sort of insane way. Dean was _cool_, good at sports, attractive, and artistic. He was tall and lean and had never wanted for female attention (except from Ginny, of course). Then there was Seamus, who did some sort of hacking job for a private company and blew up things in junkyards in his free time with Ron's older twin brothers. He was short, freckled, and had never actually had a girlfriend. Yet the two boys had been inseparable for as long as they'd known each other, and post college that hadn't changed.

The flat was packed to bursting with people, most of whom Hermione wasn't too familiar with. She had always had a small group of very close friends, and had never felt the urge to stray too far outside that ring of friends.

Her stomach turned to lead when she spotted Ron talking to Lavender by the keg, and the old insecurities arose like acidic bile. Or maybe she actually was about to throw up; she couldn't be sure.

"H-how's Harry holding up?" Hermione asked brightly, trying to ignore the burning jealousy. _It's just a habit. You don't actually have feelings for him anymore, do you_?

She tried picturing herself kissing Ron, pulling his shirt off, and the instant revulsion she felt was answer enough. So why did she still feel so jealous? Was Tom's point about her constant need for validation actually correct? She inwardly squirmed uncomfortably. She was finding more and more reasons, lately, to dislike herself.

"Oh, he's alright for now. He got cornered by Ernie an hour ago," Ginny said blithely, gesturing to a corner of the flat. Indeed, Ernie literally had Harry cornered, and Harry looked like he was trying to hide his boredom behind his plastic cup of beer. Ernie was nice, but a bit pompous. After landing a relatively impressive desk job, he never went anywhere in anything but the requisite pressed button-up shirt and khakis with the crease down the middle and stuffy loafers. Indeed, he was wearing just that now, and was drinking a glass of wine instead of beer or a mixed drink like everyone else.

Hermione debated going to rescue him, but she didn't feel like listening to Ernie tonight. For all of her talk about needing Hermione, Ginny flounced off to chat with Lavender and Ron (which Hermione found to be rather insensitive, actually), leaving her standing awkwardly alone.

The calvary came in the form of one Luna Lovegood, who was sitting on the coffee table, totally immersed in what appeared to be a porn magazine. Hermione made a beeline for the blonde girl, relieved that she had found someone to talk to.

"Luna! How've you been?" she asked loudly, perching beside the girl on the coffee table. Luna took several moments before she could tear herself away from the magazine.

"I had no idea that they made fucking machines," she replied mildly, holding up the magazine. It was currently open to a girl strapped to what appeared to be a mechanical rocking horse. _It can't possibly feel that good_, Hermione thought skeptically as she observed the porn star's look of absolute ecstasy. Then again, with Ron's 'skills' in bed, Hermione was fairly sure she'd never _actually_ orgasmed, and she still wasn't quite convinced that these mysterious orgasms actually existed at all.

"Neither did I." Hermione had long since become accustomed to Luna and all her eccentricities, and even though she often found Luna tiresome, beggars couldn't be choosers. "Where did you find that, Luna?"

"Dean's bedroom," she said brightly. "Come see, there are lots of them!"

Hermione felt a little guilty about rummaging through Dean's room, but nevertheless followed Luna through the throng of sweating dancing bodies. Luna barged in as though it were her own room, not even bothering to be slightly secretive about it.

Dean's room was, like most boys' rooms, a complete pigsty. No surface was safe from used, smelly athletic jerseys, it seemed. The same went with old socks. Hermione wrinkled her nose as Luna sifted through Dean's nightstand.

"Luna, are you sure Dean would appreciate you doing that?"

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't be happy about it," she said vaguely before producing another pornographic magazine. "Ginger Snaps. This one is probably because he still would like to bang Ginny," Luna concluded thoughtfully.

"That is so much more than I wanted to know. Thank you, Luna. Come on, let's get something to drink." Hermione was beginning to feel like alcohol was the only way to salvage this evening. She was reluctant to approach the keg, but luckily it seemed that Ron had moved away from it.

"Sometimes I like to drink until I pass out," Luna said, as though this weren't a horribly depressing revelation, as Hermione passed her a cup of beer. Hermione tried very hard to not react to that particular confession. "I heard your play was panned by Voldemort."

Did Luna have the slightest idea of how to converse appropriately? Perhaps Hermione was not as accustomed to Luna's antics as she had originally thought herself to be.

"Yes. Yes, it was," she replied flatly, looking out at the party guests. Harry was trying to interrupt Ernie, but Ernie was clearly bulldozing ahead in the conversation, either unaware or uninterested in how much Harry didn't want to hear. Ron and Lavender were currently pressed very close together on the couch. From across the room, Ron met Hermione's eyes challengingly. _Oh, for fuck's sake..._ She took a long swig of her beer — for medicinal purposes, of course.

"You shouldn't feel too bad. It's his fault that Albus Dumbledore and that prophet Dobby are dead."

Hermione promptly choked on her drink. She whirled around to face Luna, who was complacently tilting her cup so she could blow raspberries against the surface of the beer, creating bubbles.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh yes. He indirectly murdered them," Luna replied with the confidence of one who might state that it was raining whilst standing in a downpour.

"How on earth did you come up with this?"

But Luna wasn't listening; Dean was passing by and she reached out to grab him.

"I like gingers too," she said dreamily. Dean's face was the picture of horror poorly masked by feigned confusion.

"Luna, you're so odd," he said dismissively, but her grip tightened on his arm, and she would not relinquish her hold.

"We could wear wigs and role play," she suggested. "I'll even let you call me Ginny."

Hermione took this as her cue to leave this particular discussion immediately.

Ron and Lavender were currently snogging on the couch, and his hands were wandering up her shirt. _It's a wonder he has any room in there, given the padding in that pushup bra_, Hermione thought rather meanly. She idly toyed with the idea of dumping the remainder of her drink on Ron's head, but decided that might give the impression that she wanted to be in Lavender's place. And despite her jealousy, she sincerely did not wish to be. By the look on Lavender's face, she was enjoying her make-out session with Ron far more than Hermione had. Hermione mentally cringed as her insecurities roared up again. Perhaps she was just sexually subnormal?

She carefully kept her eyes averted as she passed them by on her search for Ginny. But apparently Harry had escaped Ernie's clutches, because he and Ginny were in the corner, lip-locked.

"Glad I could be of service, Ginny," Hermione said loudly on her way out, but of course, Ginny did not hear.

The hallway was oddly silent after the deafening festivities, and was honestly something of a relief. The rush of cold air was pleasant after the pressing humidity of the flat. Still that relief was melancholy as she recalled the feeling of seeing Ron and Lavender together. Would she ever be completely free of this feeling of loss?

Confused and uneasy, she found herself dialing Viktor's number once she reached outside. It went straight to voicemail, and she nearly hurled her phone into the street in her frustration.

* * *

><p>Ginny made up for her ignorance of Hermione at the party in spades: the redhead was only too delighted to help Hermione get a job at Gladrags...and by the end of the ordeal, Hermione was a little disgusted by how <em>easy <em>it had been.

Ginny had styled Hermione, and though it had been painful to part with her money for fashionable clothing, Ginny's choices had been stylish, plain, flattering basics in neutral colors — which Hermione really couldn't find any reason to object to. After Ginny had finished, Hermione hardly recognized herself.

"See! You look _so much better_ like this, Hermione," gushed Ginny as she put away an unreasonably sized box of eyeshadows. Hermione shrugged.

"It also took two hours," she pointed out, thinking she was being a voice of reason here, but Ginny blinked in confusion.

"So? I spend about two and a half hours getting ready. That's pretty low-maintenance!"

Hermione realized that there was no point trying to explain to Ginny why this was absurd, and instead graciously thanked her for her help.

Ginny's presence when Hermione sauntered into Gladrags to pick up an application also helped enormously. As usual, the moment they entered the gleaming department store, salespersons descended on Ginny like flies, and when Ginny explained why they were there, Hermione hadn't even been given an application.

"You ought to meet our manager," said one salesperson pragmatically, leading Hermione by the arm to the top floor. "God — you know Ginny Weasley," she muttered, as though this were some miraculous act of a higher power. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead pasted on a sweet, placid smile. _Observation number one about socialites: the right name will get you anything._

The main office was off of a hallway with a floor tiled with colored glass that caught the tiny halogen lights installed in the ceiling. It was beautiful but also a bit like being led into a preschooler's interpretation of heaven.

"Gellert...we've got someone you just _have _to meet," called the salesperson as they reached a vestibule much plainer than the hall. The wallpaper was a pale cream silk and enormous windows looked out over a fantastic vista of Hogsmeade — though today, like most days, was a sullen gray. A frosted glass door with modern hardware seemed to lead the way to an office, with _Gellert Grindelwald, Manager _cut through the frosting, revealing a glimpse of a darkened office.

There was silence. Just when Hermione began to feel that perhaps this Gellert Grindelwald was out to lunch, the door, seemingly of its own accord, burst open with a bang. The salesperson did not seem to be at all shocked by this occurrence, and it was with great reservations that Hermione allowed herself to be led into this office.

Compared to the airy feeling of the hallway and waiting area, the office felt claustrophobic and dark. Modern furnishings with wood so dark it was nearly black took up the room, and heavy blinds blocked out the grey winter light. A smooth, plush leather office chair was behind an enormous streamlined desk, and the chair was turned away from them, facing the window. Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes as she saw a hand pop up from behind the chair; this Gellert Grindelwald looked _old_. The hand that was gesturing had several plain, silver rings on the long and elegant bony fingers.

Suddenly the chair spun around, and they were faced with an ancient looking man with bright green eyes and shoulder-length silver hair. Crows feet lined his eyes, giving the impression that he was silently overcome with mirth, and he looked like he must have once been extraordinarily handsome. Even this old, he held a certain beckoning quality.

With his other hand, he was stroking a white cat complacently. _Really? Leather chair, dark office, white fluffy cat? _She had to physically stop herself from sniggering.

"This is Hermione Granger. She knows _Ginny Weasley,_" whispered the salesperson. Grindelwald let his gaze rove over Hermione in mild interest. "We can't pass this one up."

Hermione was overcome by the urge to point out that, as Viktor Krum's potential fiancee, she had some fame in her own right, but she went with her instincts to keep her mouth shut and let her protege do the talking here. She hated special treatment and eagerly sought chances to prove herself, but in this case she'd be willing to waive any work to get this job. It was an integral step in her work towards changing the world, so any shortcuts were welcome.

The expression on Grindelwald's face made it seem like he was preparing a monumental statement, and Hermione and the salesperson both waited with bated breath.

"Who is Ginny Weasley again?" he asked, blinking. "Drawing a blank here."

The salesperson bristled.

"Only the most famous and successful ginger supermodel," she replied stiffly. Grindelwald quirked an eyebrow.

"There's more than one ginger supermodel?" he sounded genuinely surprised. "And this Jenny Weatherby —"

"_Ginny Weasley_," interrupted the woman testily. Grindelwald waved his hand in a blasé manner.

"Right, well, whatever," he said boredly. "This is her dog-sitter or hairdresser or something?"

If Hermione hadn't been dependent on him to get this job, she would've found him hilarious. As it were, she was beginning to feel impatient.

"Best friend, actually," she replied quickly, hoping to look appropriately self-deprecating. Grindelwald studied her.

"Leave us for a moment, Greengrass," he said, his bright eyes still fixed on Hermione. The salesperson — apparently under the appellation of Greengrass — hastily left, though Hermione guessed she was going to remain in the vestibule, straining her ears to hear. "Sit. Please," said Grindelwald, gesturing to one of the dark, sleek leather chairs across his desk. Hermione uncomfortably slid into one of the chairs, wincing when the leather made an embarrassing rubbing noise against her jeans.

To her shock, Grindelwald actually began chuckling at the noise.

"S-sorry," she stammered, heat rising in her cheeks. She looked away, because Grindelwald's gaze was just further embarrassing her, and her gaze snagged on a photograph on a shelf. It was Grindelwald, sitting in a garden and looking highly displeased, while a man with long, silvery hair and a crooked nose sat in the dirt, in gardening gear, laughing at him.

"Oh, that's Albus," Grindelwald explained when he saw where she was looking. "Albus Dumbledore, my late partner."

Her mouth went dry as she suddenly recalled what Luna had said. This man — in the photograph, with piercing blue eyes and a knowing grin — was dead? Possibly because of Tom Riddle? "He died tragically. He was murdered at the protest in Diagon Alley six years ago. But you were probably in diapers then," Grindelwald added dismissively.

"Actually, I was in college, though I was abroad in France at the time," Hermione replied tartly, letting her temper get the better of her. Grindelwald quirked an eyebrow.

"So why are you really here, Helen?"

"Hermione," she corrected automatically. Grindelwald ignored her.

"You certainly lack any sense of style. You look like you fell out of the goddamn Ann Taylor factory," he mused, studying her quizzically. "You don't have that look that most girls who apply here have. You're wearing almost no makeup, and you aren't slobbering all over me in my presence. So why are you here?"

For one agonizing moment, Hermione considered just telling the truth. She could tell Grindelwald she was just here for research; there was something inviting mischief in his twinkling green eyes that made her want to spill the beans on this grand plan. But a last glance at that photograph of Albus Dumbledore made her clam up. She was also interested in finding out the truth behind that whole story, and how Tom Riddle might be involved. Odds were if she told Grindelwald she was here for research, even in the unlikely event that he did grant her employment, he'd be party to her motives and it would probably be even more difficult to learn the truth.

"Actually, this is rather embarrassing..." she began slowly, her sharp mind weaving a story as she spoke, "...I don't know if you're a football fan, but my boyfriend is on the Bulgarian football team, and we're considering taking the next step. And since he's in the press so much, I feel like I should try to do what I can to be more of the ideal match for him. At the moment, I'm not really someone that a man like him would enjoy having accompany him in the public eye. I thought working at Gladrags would help me become more polished, both in my behavior as well as my own personal style."

She mentally did a victory dance as recognition sparked in Grindelwald's eyes. He stroked his cat contemplatively as he studied her, cocking his head to the side.

"I see... you must be Viktor Krum's fiancee," he concluded softly. The cat let out a pleased meow, almost as though it were trying to say it had guessed that too. A smirk curved Grindelwald's lips. "Interesting. Krum's considered one of the best soccer players in the world right now. Though he's not too bright, is he?"

The usual defensiveness for Viktor's sake rose in Hermione.

"He's brilliant," she said curtly. "But he's very shy in front of cameras, and English is, after all, his second language." It was actually true that Viktor was quite intelligent, though calling him 'brilliant' was a bit of a stretch. He had done just fine in his schooling which she considered impressive as it had never been part of his ambition.

"Of course," he replied placatingly. "But you could, potentially, accomplish the very same at some little boutique," he continued with a wave of his hand. "Gladrags is reserved for the crème de la crème. It is the very best; the elite. You obviously know nothing about fashion, and without an instinct, the learning curve leaves quite a bit to be desired. Why should I give you — a girl who admittedly has had no experience with fashion — a job that thousands of other girls of your age and status are willing to murder to get?"

Privately Hermione thought that he was overestimating the value of a retail position, but obviously she could not voice that particular view. She smiled at him. She could see that she was going to have to sell her best points, since even Ginny's help had done nothing to boost Grindelwald's view of her.

"Because I'm smarter than all of them?" she held up her resume and pointed to her rather impressive degree. True, it had gotten her little in the way of what she viewed to be valuable success, but it could potentially get her something here... Grindelwald leaned forward and snatched it out of her hand, looking at it with a skeptical expression.

"Ah good. A philosophy/pre-law degree from Hogwarts. Just like Albus," he murmured as he scanned the resume. "No previous work experience except for volunteer efforts — good god, you're literally the polar opposite of what I typically see. Hm."

He rubbed his beard thoughtfully before tossing the resume back at her. Hermione ungracefully scrambled to grab it; her pants again made that awkward noise against the leather of the chair. "Why do I feel like I recognize your name other than from your involvement with Viktor Krum?" he wondered aloud as he gazed at her with that overly intense gaze.

Hermione flushed.

"Well, I wrote a play recently that got panned..." she paused, debating over whether to drop Tom Riddle's name. If there were some truth, how would Grindelwald react? She was curious. "The critic Voldemort panned it, actually," she added carefully. There was a flicker of something unreadable in Grindelwald's eyes.

"Haven't heard of him," he said casually. "But you've got the job, Ms. Gordon."

"Granger."

"Right," he said absently. "You start tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you beg, borrow, or steal your way to an acceptable wardrobe. At Gladrags, we look down on common people."

Hermione swallowed her disgust at his phrasing and pasted on a brilliant smile.

"Thank you; you won't be disappointed!" she promised as she rose. She noticed that they had not even discussed salary or the terms of her employment, but she was too hesitant to push for that. Better to take what she could get for now, after all. Grindelwald smirked at her.

"I know I won't be; we fire anyone before they can disappoint us," he replied smoothly. With that last disturbing phrase, he dismissed Hermione from his office.

* * *

><p>Hermione had a bad feeling that day as she returned to her flat, laden with bags of clothes that were apparently fashionable. Why on earth had Grindelwald suddenly decided to give her the job? If Gladrags were really so exclusive, it seemed odd to her that she had been awarded a job there — particularly since she really, truly did not belong there. She had been ignoring it all day, because she thought it unwise to look a gift horse in the mouth, but her natural tendency for overanalyzing things was rising up and she couldn't fight the urge to overthink everything.<p>

But she spent all afternoon puzzling out the possible reasons for it and yet came no closer to any feasible conclusion. Grindelwald didn't strike her as someone to just randomly make decisions, so she _knew_ there had to be some ulterior motive. But what could it be?

And then there was the thing Luna had told her about Tom Riddle and his involvement in Dumbledore's murder...these things were all connected, but where did she fit into the story?

Annoyed that she couldn't solve this problem, Hermione spent a good long while organizing her new wardrobe to keep herself busy. With every item that she put away, she felt like she was dropping a fistful of money in the toilet and watching it circle the drain. _It's for a good cause_, she told herself repeatedly, though she couldn't shake the sickly feeling. She hated wasting money, and these silky shirts in odd, asymmetrical cuts seemed like the biggest waste of money of all.

When she checked her email, however, her disgust was abruptly pushed to the side.

_**Miss Troll —**_

_**You can't afford me. **_

_**— Voldemort**_

Hermione nearly threw her laptop at the wall. He _really _wasn't going to make this easy on her, was he?


	5. Lesson Five: Chiasmus

**Panned**

Note: Er…sorry for the 3+ year delay. I can't promise there won't be another one. Cheers!

* * *

><p><strong>Lesson Five – Chiasmus<strong>

* * *

><p>Hermione had slept fitfully, and by the time she left her flat for her first day at Gladrags, she looked the worse for wear. The clothes, which had yesterday looked surprisingly modern and stylish on her, today looked more suited to Luna Lovegood or one of the homeless people strung along the sidewalks of Hogsmeade. Dark circles, as though a black marker had been taken to her face, seemed to stand out even more in contrast to her skin, which was pale due to lack of sleep.<p>

Was she actually _nervous?_

Hermione had always been relatively confident in her own capabilities, but in this case, she was coming up short. She wasn't pretty, she wasn't stylish, and she was not, under any circumstances, a charming people-person… none of her qualities or skills would be put to use here at Gladrags.

_But it's all for your play! You can do anything in the name of research,_ she told herself on the underground, clutching her paper cup of coffee and wobbling in her high heels. She had a thick pad of paper ready, as well as a smaller, pocket-sized notebook, for any notes or observations. This was like an assignment, and by god, she was going to ace it.

She stumbled into Gladrags twenty minutes earlier than she had been told to arrive; the store was eerily dark, but pulsing—presumably hip—music was playing. The counters were abandoned, and in the shadows, the faceless mannequins looked menacing.

"There you are. I was warned about the hair," drawled a familiar voice. It was the girl from yesterday—Astoria Greengrass—wrapped in a leather skirt, black tights, and a leather jacket. She was also carrying a latte and looking less than peppy.

For a moment, she felt that familiar clench of insecurity. She had never been and never would be a "pretty" girl. Of course she had always recognized she had her own charms, and one day someone worthy would appreciate them. She ignored the tiny voice pointing out that Viktor already did and had evidently been doing so for many years. But that hadn't made growing up as an ugly duckling any easier, really.

Then she remembered herself.

She held her chin high.

"It's…" she paused, wracking her brains, "… Twilfit and Tatting's favored hairstyle." Was Twilfit and Tatting a brand? Why did she know that name…? Astoria looked bemused.

"Nice try, but their models always have shaved heads," she said wryly, setting her latte down on the counter. "You're on the right track though—but next time, just make up a name."

Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"Sorry, I'm still getting the hang of this."

"You had the right tone and confidence." She took off her leather jacket, revealing a silky black blouse, giving Hermione another burst of insecurity. "Honestly, stop looking at me like you're a … a gerbil, or something. That thing you did a moment ago was _much_ better." She set her hands on her hips. She sauntered past the counter, looking disgusted. "Pretend I'm a customer," she ordered.

Hermione wrung her hands. Was she supposed to ask her something? Was she supposed to greet her?

"Erm…can I … help you?"

Astoria stopped and rolled her eyes.

"NO." She stomped her foot. "You're _above_ me, remember? Unless I'm bloody Ginny Weasley, pretend I might as well be … I don't know… some sort of bug, or something. Now, try again."

Hermione drew in a deep breath, then held her head high. Astoria directed her to stand behind the counter, and she did as ordered. Then Astoria walked along the counter, picking up perfumes, smelling them, then setting them down again.

_She is nothing. I am above her. She is a bug,_ Hermione thought repeatedly.

"Excuse me," said Astoria, in a startlingly accurate rendition of the speech pattern of some of the more spoilt girls Hermione had known in her life. She had the petulance, whininess, and general air of brattiness down perfectly.

Hermione looked at her nails and ignored her. "_Excuse me._ Omigod, is this girl just, like, _ignoring_ me? HELLO!" Astoria banged the counter.

Hermione's lips twitched—she was having a very hard time not laughing. She let out a bored sigh, then went to the other side of the counter. Astoria followed her. "Um, I want to, like, try this perfume? Hello?"

"Oh. Did you need something?" Hermione finally drawled, trying to mimic how Astoria had behaved yesterday. Astoria paused, crossing her arms, and nodding vigorously.

"Good, much better."

"Why do you treat customers that way?" Hermione asked as Astoria led her up the escalator.

"Because that's what lets them know this store is superior," said Astoria, evidently disgusted that Hermione hadn't realized this before. "Other stores act desperate for their patronage—that is their mistake. If we treat them like shit, they assume we're better…which means we're what they think they should be aiming for," she elaborated slyly.

"Do you enjoy this sort of thing?" Hermione asked dubiously, as they got off the escalator and walked through a row of enormous gowns. The entire area was fluffy with tulle and dripping with jewels and sequins.

"Of course. I'm bloody fantastic at it."

Hermione plodded along after Astoria, significantly less graceful or effortless in her own heels, and they reached a small door, almost hidden in the wall. Behind this, evidently, was the staff lounge. "First, we need to get you in flats. You look ridiculous."

"These are apparently stylish! And they cost me half a month's rent!" Hermione complained, as Astoria dropped her things on a purple velvet chaise longue and gestured for Hermione to follow her through yet another set of doors.

"They're last season and honestly you look like a giraffe having a seizure when you walk in them."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later found Hermione standing in the golden light of the fully awakened Gladrags, in an almost completely different outfit from which she had entered the store in.<p>

"You're going to be in fragrance today. It's a nice, easy place to start," explained Astoria. "You'll be shadowing me."

Hermione had foolishly assumed that they wouldn't have any customers, but it seemed half the population had literally nowhere else to be on a Tuesday morning half past ten. They came in packs of three, with enormous sunglasses, very high heels, very large purses, and disturbingly small dogs.

"Good lord, don't people have jobs?" she hissed to Astoria.

"No, and this is our busiest time of year—be grateful."

"Why?"

"Because in the summery months, everyone is vacationing elsewhere. In spring, they're either in Paris or Milan for fashion week, same with fall," said Astoria under her breath. "Alright, watch me."

To her shock, Hermione recognized the customer approaching them at once.

It was Pansy Parkinson.

Years of suffering flashed before her eyes. For a moment, Hermione was blinded by old rage resurfacing.

"Excuse me," Pansy greeted snidely. Astoria pretended to not hear her; she was making a show of being much busier with examining her nails.

"I really hate Mme Malkin's Spring colours," she sighed to Hermione, astutely ignoring an increasingly outraged Pansy. "That coral is just _so tacky. _And it's not like Twilfit and Tatting didn't do it three years ago."

Pansy happened to be in head-to-toe coral. Hermione bit her lip, waiting for Pansy to throw a fit, or at the very least, recognize Hermione.

But she did neither. She seemed…almost… cowed, in a way. Had she a tail, it would have been between her legs as she slunk away from them, pretending to busy herself with sampling perfumes. She was self-consciously checking her appearance in the dozens of mirrors all over the store, seemingly horrified with herself.

"It really is embarrassing," Hermione agreed loudly. "And so _desperate_, somehow."

"Exactly. That's the word. Desperate."

Hermione felt a twinge of shame at openly ridiculing someone. But then, suddenly, Pansy was back.

"Um, could you help me?" she asked in a small voice. Hermione was stunned. _She doesn't recognize me._ Was it possible? She caught a sliver of her own reflection in one of the many mirrors and, indeed, she hardly recognized herself.

She felt Astoria giving her a warning look behind her back, so she did as directed, and leaned against the counter, pretending to be busy in her own thoughts. "Um, I just needed some help…"

Hermione let out a heavy sigh.

"Yes?"

"Do you… do you think this perfume is, like, _over?_ I kind of think it suits me, but…" Pansy pointed to a dark blue glass bottle. Hermione had no idea of how a _smell_ of all things could be "over"—what on earth did that even _mean?_

"Um, it's…" she had no idea what to say. _You're above me, remember? _Astoria's words echoed in her mind. "I mean, I think my gran would like it," she finished in a half-hearted tone. In reality, both of her grandmothers were dead now, but Pansy didn't know that.

Pansy looked horrified.

"Oh god, really? Well, what do you think is good right now?"

Panic time. Hermione honestly had no idea of what to do or say. She didn't know any of these perfumes—what if she told her the wrong thing?

_Research. You're doing research. Keep your goal in mind._ She picked up a bottle at random. _So far, we know that attitude is everything._

She sprayed it on a card and waved it around, as she'd seen others do before in movies. The scent was pungent and reminiscent of very cheap men's cologne, and she could feel her breakfast coming back up as her eyes watered.

"Right now, you want a stronger scent. Something memorable. This season is all about power, feminism—the silhouettes are clean and sharp, the makeup intense, and the scents almost overbearing."

Pansy nodded seriously.

"I'm all about feminism," she agreed vigorously, taking the card that Hermione handed her and inhaling deeply. "Wow, I like this. I would never have considered it before!"

_Because it smells like a cheap Lothario's cologne? _Hermione mused.

"It suits you," she said finally, making sure she didn't sound too enthusiastic or energetic.

The perfume cost as much as her heating bill for three months and Pansy left in a smog of it, pushing others away due to its intensity, allowing her quite a wide berth.

"That was good. Really good." Astoria sounded shocked. "Clever, especially since that's not even perfume. Well done."

Hermione bit back a grin.

* * *

><p>Tom was feeling a bit paranoid today. After donning his overcoat and sunglasses (it was an unusually crisp, bright day in Hogsmeade), he got a cab to take him to Gladrags. He needed to be fitted for a new tux—his current favorite was now ruined, thanks to walking in the snow—and he needed it <em>soon<em>, as there was to be a major charity event Friday night. However, in the cab, as he perused his Twitter feed on his OwlPhone, he noticed some rather unsettling Tweets.

_**The Quibbler: The Truth About the Dumbledore Scandal Comes Out**_

Several well-known Twitter users (journalists included) had retweeted and favorited this Tweet. Tom shifted in his seat. Some of these journalists were actually considered respectable. He wasn't happy.

_**Regulus Black: **__**So glad this is finally coming out.**_

Tom choked on his own spit. Regulus Black, of all people? The humiliation—he couldn't bear it.

He had to click through—he went to the Quibbler's online article, which was a mass of enormous, irrelevant, slow-to-load gifs. His dark eyes rapidly scanned the article for what he needed before he stuffed his mobile in his pocket and got out of the cab, scowling, collar turned up and hands shoved in his pockets.

The smart thing, the _prudent_ thing, was to ruin the Quibbler to ensure that the article was not only taken down, but also considered so worthless that all interest was killed.

But he had no concept of how to go about ruining something that was already complete trash. And besides, it was too late—all good journalists knew that where there was smoke, there was generally fire. That is, even if no one took the Quibbler seriously, the seed had been planted. Others would investigate the story, and even if no solid evidence ever turned up, it would be a murky rumor, guaranteed to bite him in the arse at the least opportune (for him, anyway) moment.

However, he couldn't brood for too long. He needed his tuxedo for the charity ball. Tom drew in a cleansing breath. He would not have this minor setback ruin everything else for him.

So, with practiced ease, he pulled off his sunglasses and entered Gladrags.

* * *

><p>"Oh, crap." Astoria nearly bowled over a group of girls in identical outfits tittering over provocative lingerie on display as she approached Hermione darkly.<p>

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, a jolt of insecurity ruffling her. _What if they've found me out? What if I'm doing a terrible job? _For a long, frantic moment, images of public ridicule and humiliation bombarded Hermione, as always happened when she was doing something she knew she shouldn't be doing. In this case, simply having this job was enough of a farce.

"Parvati was supposed to be covering the Mme Malkin suiting today but as usual she's called in sick. Stupid girl. I suppose she didn't realize chlamydia is sort of an _ongoing_ condition." Astoria came round behind the counter and slouched against it. "I need you to cover suiting. You don't have to do any work; just stand there and look superior. Flitwick is in, thank god for _small_ favors, so he'll do all the tailoring."

"Tailoring?" Hermione asked faintly.

"We've got one of our most visible clients coming in today for a fitting," said Astoria crisply, directing Hermione to the escalators upstairs. She balked at Hermione's look of terror. "_Go. Now."_

Scalded by Astoria's rage, Hermione scuttled to the escalators, surreptitiously checking her mobile, which was pulsing every other moment with new texts from friends, mainly Ginny. She'd made it through nearly three hours of work and already she was exhausted and overwhelmed. She couldn't bring herself to check the messages, especially since seeing them in such great numbers had to mean some new horror had occurred. She was just itching to dash to the employee lounge where her notebook was, and write down her many observations, thereby taking her mind off of her misery, but she couldn't afford to be sacked just yet.

She reached the third floor, recalling just the other day bearing witness to Draco and his father being fitted for suits. The suiting department looked ransacked.

"Oh no," she breathed, glancing round and picking up a sumptuous pinstriped waistcoat backed in vermillion silk.

"Thank goodness!" came a squeak from …nowhere. Hermione glanced round anxiously. "Down here," added the voice in resignation. An astonishingly small man with poofy hair and an immaculate suit was beaming up at her. "Hurry; _Riddle_ is coming for his tuxedo today for the charity event on Friday night, and he hates messes!"

"Oh, Riddle?" Hermione snorted as she followed the man—presumably Flitwick—through the department, picking up tailoring pieces everywhere. "He's hardly worth the—"

"Last month alone he spent well over six thousand Galleons just in suiting." Flitwick had halted and was looking at her with such gravity that it took Hermione's breath away. "He is our most visible client and is credited with boosting our suiting department's sales by three thousand percent, even when you don't include his own purchases. He's made my career."

"…Right. What do you need me to do?"

Flitwick beamed.

"Clean up the department. Hurry—he'll be here any moment."

"What happened?" Hermione pressed as she quickly hung up the waistcoat.

"No time! Clean!" squeaked Flitwick as he zoomed over to the banks of fitting rooms.

The department looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Hermione moved as fast as she could. The moment recalled the last time Mrs Weasley had indicated she had wanted to see Ron's flat—Ron had enlisted _everyone'_s help in trying to tidy it up before she arrived. It had taken her, Harry, Ginny, Fred and George—who had been rather less help than Ron had hoped—and Percy to get the flat to looking at least like it hadn't been hit by a bomb in the half hour they'd had before Mrs Weasley was due to arrive. She'd never moved so fast in her life.

"Ah, Miss Troll—on the floor where you, naturally, belong. The question, however, remains: why _my_ floor?"

Hermione was in a crouch, sorting through silk ties that had all been tied together a la a childish escape rope. She looked up, slightly sweaty from moving so hastily, her face flushed, and she realized a beat too late that her blouse was gaping open in this position.

Tom Riddle looked down at her, clad in an impeccably tailored overcoat, his cheeks flushed just-so. She hated him.

"Your floor, right," she panted, sitting back on her heels and wiping her brow. "Right, I forgot you can't look at anything without owning it."

"Has no one informed you: the customer is always right. That snark just won't do," he chided, pulling out his OwlPhone. "I heard you were working here now."

"Because I told you?" she snorted, rising to her feet and absently brushing off her legs. The department was marginally neater now, though upon a second glance she realized she'd put a number of waistcoats with the incorrect suits. Still, she felt a sense of doom coming on—she was fairly certain she hadn't told Tom about this job. Tom sniggered at her.

"Actually, the _Prophet_ did." He held up his OwlPhone. On display on the _Prophet_'s website was yet another horrendous photograph of her openly adjusting her bra whilst lounging at the perfume counter during a slow moment. It must have been taken within fifteen minutes of the store opening. _When _had it happened?

_**Granger Danger On Trophy Wife Path, Takes Placeholder Job at Gladrags**_**,** read the headline.

"Granger Danger?!" Well, at least this explained the dozens of texts.

"I rather like it," said Tom smugly, glancing at the article again and chuckling as he stowed his mobile in his pocket. Hermione was speechless. "I believe it was derived from the Bulgarian fansite," Tom needlessly explained.

"I—" she sputtered as hot tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm not his fiancée, though," she managed to utter. Tom arched his brows at her.

"So you said no, then," he confirmed dubiously. Hermione blinked rapidly.

"No! I mean, I haven't decided! We were going to—"

"Shut up." Tom's voice was low, quick. Suddenly, with a grip like a vise on her upper arm, he was leading her towards the fitting rooms.

"Wh-what! Let me g—"

"Paparazzi, four o'clock," said Tom without moving his lips. "Don't look."

Too late. Hermione glanced round wildly, and indeed saw a rustling between two banks of suiting and the flash of a mobile camera going off. "Good god, you're terrible at this," he scoffed. "Now they've got a picture of your face. I wonder how they'll spin this one."

Hermione groaned and hid inside a fitting room, sinking down into one of the plush, French country-style chairs with brocade seats.

"I'm trapped, aren't I," Hermione reasoned. "Because if Viktor and I don't marry, he'll look ridiculous."

"Oh, he already does," said Tom cheerily, checking his mobile again. "Nothing yet. This one's a slow one. Must be a rookie."

"But if we do go through with it…I've signed myself up for a lifetime of _this,_" she choked out.

Just then, Flitwick burst in, nearly buried under a tuxedo bag.

"Ah, Fitzwilliam," greeted Tom, still looking at his mobile. Flitwick ignored the slight and instead relied on Hermione to tactfully snag the bag from him and hang it on one of the just-out-of-reach-for-Flitwick hooks.

"It's Flitwick," she snapped. Far from looking pleased at the defense, however, Flitwick shot her a surprisingly sharp scowl before turning back to Tom.

"Sorry for the mess today, Riddle," he squeaked.

"Yes, I heard Diggory was displeased about the fitting," he drawled, looking up from his mobile at last. He flashed the screen at Hermione, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of a headline: _**Granger Danger Denies Engagement Allegations**_. "The escape rope seems a bit desperate, though," Tom added with a snort. Flitwick laughed.

"Well, now that his biggest rival is getting so much media attention, he's under a bit of stress," reasoned Flitwick. "I heard Krum is getting engaged?"

Hermione fought back a scream as Tom grinned, catlike, at her. "Mind the floor, if you please," Flitwick said to her, "while I fit Mr Riddle to his tux."

Hermione 'accidentally' elbowed Tom on her way out of the dressing room, her mind racing. By Diggory, they had to be referring to Cedric Diggory—who was currently the star player for England. In other words, Viktor's opposition.

She thought she might be sick.

She felt her mobile buzzing away noisily in her pocket but she ignored it as she minded the floor per Flitwick's orders, though the suiting department remained stubbornly as quiet as a morgue.

_I've got to talk to Viktor and sort this out, _she reasoned to herself as she paced through the suit socks section. _This is just a problem, and all I've got to do is solve it. _

As she paced, she ran through her current problems: there was the mess with Viktor and the media, there was the mess between Viktor and her, there was the thing with Ron—she supposed that counted as a mess, too, though it seemed rather small at the moment in comparison, considering it didn't bear an international witness—there was also the issue of her play, and then there was her future: murky, mysterious, and looking increasingly divided at the moment. She realized she was at a fork in the road, and once she chose a path, there would be no going back.

Why couldn't Viktor have chosen somewhere _non-public_ to propose? Then half of her troubles would be nonexistent. Unreasonable rage at Viktor, at his innocence regarding a world he had lived in since early adolescence, blossomed within her. How could she possibly choose to marry someone _so foolish_, so _naïve_?

And yet…at this point…how could she not?

She was an international laughingstock, if the media was to be believed. Overnight, her life had changed, and now it was hard to imagine anyone taking her seriously ever again. It was hard to even imagine she could ever take _herself_ seriously ever again.

"That was easy," Flitwick was squeaking, and it drew Hermione out of her dark musings. Flitwick and Riddle were exiting the fitting rooms, Riddle carrying the bag containing his tuxedo. "You never change from one year to the next. You truly are ageless," he was marveling.

"Everything in moderation, including moderation, obviously," Tom parried with a sly grin. He saluted Hermione, amusement in every line of his body, before taking his leave of the department. Hermione watched him ride the escalators down, already on his mobile again, his tuxedo bag slung over his svelte shoulder.

"How can you stand it?" Hermione pressed as Flitwick began tidying again, sorting the suits she had incorrectly put away. "He doesn't even know your _name._"

"Do you like getting paid? Because I do." Flitwick paused, regarding her over his miniature spectacles for a moment, before returning to his work, humming cheerily. Hermione flushed in shame. _You can't solve all your problems, _she told herself, _but you can keep your goals in mind. _

"I bet you've lots of great stories from working here," she said, following Flitwick and uselessly tidying up along with him. "Was that _really_ Cedric Diggory's _escape_ rope that I un-knotted before?" she asked, genuinely curious. Flitwick chuckled as he buttoned up a series of jackets.

"Diggory's father is an old friend of mine," Flitwick said. "Poor Cedric has never enjoyed the media attention. With that face of his, of course, in combination with his talent, he can't avoid it. But he's truly a down-to-earth sort of fellow. I reckon he'd far prefer a quiet life in the countryside."

"Like Viktor," said Hermione, forgetting herself. Flitwick glanced at her, and then did a double-take, recognition dawning on his wizened face.

"You're—"

"Granger Danger, yes," confessed Hermione wryly, as they in unison moved on to sorting socks.

"I didn't recognize you," said Flitwick in shock.

"I got a makeover of sorts," Hermione explained. "Do you always work with famous clients?"

"Usually, yes. I don't have time to take on too many."

"Why not?"

"I teach at the university. Got this job as a second job."

"University doesn't pay enough?" Hermione asked in shock. Flitwick chuckled again.

"No, not nearly. Grindelwald is kind enough to only give me the most high-profile clients, however, so this is manageable."

"So who else do you work with? Besides Riddle and Diggory," she asked eagerly, following Flitwick. He apparently ignored her question.

"You can go back to Fragrance," he said now. "I don't need your help anymore—it'll be rather quiet the rest of the day."

Feeling like she had mis-stepped, and not sure quite _how_ she had, Hermione slunk back to the escalators and rode down, her stomach churning. She could only ignore real life for so long. The idea that she would even make it to the end of this day seemed increasingly impossible, and as she spotted a large group of sumptuously-dressed women pointing up at her from Fragrance in utter shock, that feeling only deepened.

* * *

><p>She had made it.<p>

"I can't believe we survived," Astoria said faintly, as they stood near the back exit of Gladrags. She gazed at Hermione. "You don't belong here. You're too smart."

"So are you," said Hermione warmly, relieved to be recognized for something positive, after the day she had had. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Oh, I was paid well for it," Astoria reassured her, grinning. "See you tomorrow. Don't forget to wear flats."

"Right. Bye," Hermione said, waving to Astoria as she left out the door, leaving Hermione alone in the employee lounge. She still had to change out of her borrowed clothes. She did so hastily, wishing she had just brought normal clothes to change into. The idea of commuting home in the heels she'd purchased made the commute seem even more insurmountable than it already seemed.

Back in her own new clothes, Hermione turned off the lights and went to the door—and opened it, promptly smacking into a tall, hard body.

It all happened at once: the tall stranger's sunglasses—odd given it had been dark for hours now—flew off and ricocheted off the alley wall; already precarious in her ridiculous giraffe-like heels, she slipped on some ice on the doorstep and knocked the stranger down; a camera flash went off. And then she heard a voice: "Granger Danger's going for a full set, is she? Bulgaria not enough for you, eh?"

She winced, slipping as she attempted to claw herself back to a standing position. The stranger she had smacked into had his face covered with his hands, but his face, thought it was handsome, was not the only thing he was known for—Hermione, considering every female she had ever known owned a poster of him (that famous picture of him shirtless, sweaty, and going in for a victory kick against Bulgaria), would have known him anywhere.

It was Cedric Diggory.


End file.
